Whistle For The Choir
by chasingfireflies
Summary: They meet Hiram Berry for the first time at the hospital, and Puck explains that this all started with a badly scheduled date. -/- Faberry, Puckleberry friendship.
1. Bounce

_Disclaimer: Evidently, being seventeen and Australian, I don't own it. Like, at all._

_This is set in late Spring, AU after 2x10, "A Very Glee Christmas'. Liberties will be taken. This is an "I Wish" verse, ergo not stuck to canon. That's the only pre-warning you're getting. Angst is present. Ignore it.  
_

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**It all starts with a badly scheduled date. **

Then Rachel and Finn break up for the umpteenth time (they've been mostly fine since New Years, even though their Christmas drama was just irritating, and it's late on Spring now). But then again, when _does_ it really start with anything else?

No one's really surprised – the relationship is dysfunctional, doomed right from the very beginning, and it's a questionable fact that the two are even together anymore. No one really knows how Finn puts up with Rachel's intensity, or why Rachel puts up with all his crap and all his flaws (there's a list of them somewhere, they're sure, written in elegant script and marked with a star). But their dramatic 'will they, won't they, yes they will but they'll break up in a month, stop, rinse, repeat' act is mostly met with lethargy now. It's normal. No one really cares. So they go about their lives as normal, apart from Puck's decision to have a Glee-only (and Kurt, and maybe his Dalton friends) pool party.

Actually, the surprising part is that Rachel shares the mindset – she doesn't care. She doesn't follow Finn around to get him back, doesn't apologise for breaking up with him (did _she_ break up with him this time?), and all around doesn't seem all that interested in anything to do with the boy for the entire two weeks following.

Finn? Well, he's not so happy.

It's pretty evident from the way he sulks in the corner all day while Rachel ignores him, smiling brightly and laughing along with Kurt, slapping Puck on the back of the head when he tries to feel her up in the middle of a game of chicken with Tina and Mike. By majority, the rest of the group ignore him too, because he snaps at Mercedes in the first half hour and after that everyone kind of just figures that he'll bring down their good moods – and really, why bother then?

Everyone gets out of the pool for lunch, and it's when they're all lazing around with their food that it comes to a head. Rachel and Blaine have already finished eating, and they're dancing around the poolside singing along to Bon Jovi while it blares from Puck's stereo. Everyone's watching with unveiled amusement, because Rachel has never been this relaxed around any of them before (bar Blaine and Kurt, who've hung out with her enough times to take this with wide smiles and familiarity, and Puck who doesn't mention is but knows way better), and really, the whole show is ridiculous. Finn grumbles in the corner, arms crossed over his shirt, and he hasn't eaten and he hasn't even been in the pool all day.

Most of the group will say that _this_ is where the whole thing starts. But they don't actually know anything, and really, it _all_ started with the badly-scheduled date.

Finn growls eventually, and stalks over to the two in the middle of 'Bounce', wraps one of his behemoth hands around Rachel's wrist and yanks her around the other side of the pool, as if the open surface of the pool water between them gives them some semblance of privacy. Everyone – _including_ Rachel – rolls their eyes, except Blaine who seems rather miffed at having lost his dance partner. He moves to stand next to Kurt, who lazes back on a lounge chair and eats his burger slowly.

It may be the oldest show in the world to the lot of them, but they still watch as Rachel yanks her hand back from her ex-boyfriend, rubbing at her wrist idly, and Finn speaks, low and fierce but steadily getting louder. Entertainment is entertainment, after all, no matter where it's from. Especially when it comes from voices that are raised over the top of hard rock and high volume.

"You can't hold this against me! You cheated on me before and _I_ forgave you!"

"Finn, there's a _big_ difference between making out with someone and _sleeping_ with them. How stupid do you think I am? I'm not going to be your plaything just so you can hide the unsavoury nature of your romantic interests from our classmates. Really, there's nothing about you - from your reputation or your personality to your looks - that is appealing enough for me to take up any such position. It's not like you've ever done anything for me anyway."

"I got you all the respect you have in McKinley. I was the perfect boyfriend for you! You can't say no to me, you can't deny me, I'm on the football team and you _need_ me!"

"No I don't," Rachel scoffs, and everyone is a little surprised at the sarcasm and the fact that Rachel's not fawning over him, and the fact that he's apparently cheated on her. "You're the one who needs _me_, apparently."

"Rachel, my reputation is worth everything! If you don't get back with me, I will make your life a living hell," Finn practically screams, and everyone on the other side of the empty pool just watches in shock and astonishment. Rachel lifts a hand and pokes the boy in the chest.

"No," she says loudly. "There is nothing you can do to me that will make me even _consider_ playing your _beard_. And if it were really so important to you, you wouldn't have kept up the weekly late-night rendezvous with the guy."

"Guy?" Mercedes hisses to Quinn, and everyone is exchanging glances now, wondering what the _hell_ is going on.

"You would not have cheated on me with _Drew Gillan_, and you would certainly not have had him over on a Friday afternoon where I found him _in your bed_," the girl continued, and everyone was slack-jawed now, because the Finn and Rachel show had been totally renewed. "More than that, you would be smart enough to know that I would never be dumb enough to believe that the naked guy in your bed was just there to 'hang out and play video games'. I really don't want to be with you."

"You always wanted to before!"

"Finn, I thought you were _stupid_, not gay."

"Oh, so you won't date me because you're homophobic!"

"I have two ga- no, you know what, you're _still_ stupid."

"I can't believe you would do this to me! You're so selfish!"

Rachel has the mind to look affronted. The rest of the glee club is just looking on in shock, trying to figure out if this is real or a dream, or just all scripted. It's not impossible – this is _Rachel Berry_ they're talking about, so it might all be one big, bad joke.

"You cheated on me with a _guy _from Carmel High for _three weeks_, used me as an unknowing cover for your sexuality, complained endlessly nonetheless that I wouldn't _put out_ for you, and still want me to get back with you like nothing happened, just so you don't look like you were dumped by the school loser and so no one thinks you bat for the other team, an yet _I'm_ the selfish one?"

The level of disbelief, disgust, and fury in her voice is significant enough for the rest of the team to realise that, no, this is not a joke, and yes, Finn is really gay. And a cheater. And kind of manipulative. This is a strange day.

"Fuck you, Finn Hudson."

And that – _that_ – is the real catalyst, because that is when Finn realises the damage to their kind-of-false relationship is irreparable, and she's not going to help with the upkeep of his reputation. That understanding leads to anger, and anger leads to a raised fist. Everyone else is too shocked to say anything, or _do_ anything, but they don't think they have to when Rachel sidesteps with a scoff. Except then Finn grips the girl's shoulders with his huge hands, his knuckles white with the pressure of the hold, and she winces. It will probably bruise, but his infuriated words come before that really registers to anyone.

"I made you _better_, Rachel! You don't get to do this to me!" he yells as he shakes her, and there's genuine fear on her face as she tries to get away from him. He doesn't let her go, though, even when she starts crashing her fist into his chest. "You don't get to turn your back on me! I'll freaking kill you!"

But then she knees him a little too harshly, and everyone lets out a collective sigh because Finn lets go of her to grip his stomach. But before she can move away, Finn growls out a '_bitch!_' and shoves her violently away from him – with enough force to send her stumbling back and falling off her feet and into the deep end of the pool with a shriek, a huge splash, and a sickening '_crack!'_ that nobody can quite place.

There's a pause, a hesitation, because – _is this real?_

But then Puck's out of his chair and thundering around the pool, crashing into Finn who still grips his stomach, and barging him to the ground. Matt and Sam go to try and restrain him even though they agree with the sentiment – "_you don't hit girls, and you don't ever, __**ever**__ hit Rachel, do you hear me you punk! I'll kill you! I'll fucking kill you!_". Kurt and Blaine just exchange disbelieving glances with the girls until the former goes to tell off his step-brother, stiff and angry, and the latter realises something all too crucial.

"Rachel hasn't come up."

The most the girls can do to that is turn their surprised gazes to the pool, looking for that dark shape beneath the water. But they don't really get the chance to do much else anyway, because as soon as Blaine says the words he's up and rushing to dive in the pool. By the time he's resurfaced, pulling the girl up through the water over his shoulder, all the girls are at the side of the pool ready to help him pull her out. They lay her down and circle around her in a rush until the boy pushes them aside and goes through the right routine.

"Heart's beating," he says while he grabs her wrist, but a fraction of a second later he leans in to listen near her face and counters it with worse news. "She's not breathing."

Everyone looks at each other in fear and anxiety and – _god, this can't be happening_ – disbelief, but the Dalton boy's already right up on it with CPR. Tense moments – will this work, will she be okay, why did this happen? Rachel's body is already paling, and it's _so much fucking relief_ for everyone when she's coughing up water a few moments later. But then Blaine's brushing her hair back with his fingers while she opens her eyes, and the disorientation is totally feasible because they come back with blood. He's quickly realising that the unnamed crack when she was pushed into the pool? That was the sound of her head hitting the pavement on the edge of the pool.

"Shit. Mercedes, get some towels," the Dalton boy orders quickly, and Mercedes hesitates to comply, staring at the red on his fingers. "_Now!_"

Santana snaps a phone out of nowhere before anyone else can even think of it, and dials off 911, and then Mercedes rejoins the group with a few dry towels so Blaine can press them to the back of Rachel's head. She just blinks up at the lot of them, her eyes glazed over.

"What are you all... doing?" she asks slowly, ignoring the Latina who speaks hurriedly over the phone. "I'm on the ground... what – my _head_..."

She groans, eyes slipping closed, and Blaine's surprised when one of the girls pushes up to be directly opposite him, leaning down on her other side.

"Open your eyes, Berry," the blonde orders harshly – he might see the desperation on her face, but he certainly can't hear it in her words.

"...'m so tired, Quinn..."

"Open your fucking eyes, Stubbles!" is the only reply she gets, and Rachel struggles to comply, cowed by the tone. "Good girl. You're going to do what I tell you. Look at me. Talk to me if you have to. Do not, under any circumstance, close your eyes on me."

"...Or wh...?"

"Or I will personally slushy you _every_ _day_ for the next five years – _including_ weekends," the head cheerleader fires back tensely, glare in place all the way. Rachel stares dully back up at her for a moment, eyes tired. Then she smiles.

"You're concerned."

Quinn just narrows her gaze at the girl.

"Don't get used to it," she grumbles, but there's the tiniest quirk at the corner of her lip and an adamant relief in her eyes, because Rachel seems to be okay, if only for the moment. There's sirens in the distance, and Puck and Kurt have wandered over from the other side of the pool, where Finn is being forced to stay on the ground by Mike and Sam, neither of whom seem even the slightest bit inclined to let him up. They're rather fierce with him, actually. Stoic, even.

Puck and Kurt? Not so much.

"Shit, Rach, are you okay?" from the former.

"Has anyone called an ambulance?" from the latter.

"Quinn won't let me sleep," is all they're told, and the cheerleader just smirks and takes the girl's hand while Puck grabs his cell from the table a few metres away and the sirens out on the road get louder. Someone turns off the stereo – no one is really paying attention, because they're all huddled around Rachel at the poolside while Blaine holds a towel to the back of her head and Quinn grips the girl's hand, reminding her not to close her eyes every time she tries to.

"Yeah, hey, Hiram? It's Noah," Puck says eventually into his phone, and no one knows who he's calling, but it gets pretty evident. _Noah_, he introduces himself as – _Noah_ – and the only one of the group who calls him that is Rachel. On top of that, he's all manner of anxious. "No, I – it's Rachel. Could you meet us at the hospital?"

He closes his phone and goes back to kneel next to Rachel, and Kurt takes the spot beside Blaine.

"Noah?"

"Called your dad, baby girl. He'll meet us at the hospital."

"Mmkay. Sing me some Pokémon."

No one really comments on the weird familiarity between the two, or the absurdity of the comment. But Puck starts singing the original Pokémon theme song anyway, and Kurt and Blaine decide to join in midway through the verse, and Rachel just smiles and stares at the sky until the sirens cut off over the fence. Mercedes goes to get the paramedics from the front door, and Quinn keeps a death grip on the girl's hand.

"...Quinn?"

"Hmm?"

"If I die, tell Finn he's an asshole."

They meet Hiram Berry for the first time at the hospital, and Puck explains that this all started with a badly scheduled date.

**/-\**

_This ain't no game; I play it hard  
Kicked around, cut, stitched and scarred  
I'll take the hit but not the fall  
I know no fear, still standing tall  
You can call it karma, call it luck  
Me, I just don't give a -_

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_Reviews are appreciated.  
_


	2. If You Ever Come Back

_Disclaimer: Don't own. I'll be putting this at the start of every chapter just to remind you. :)_

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**Glee tastes like tension and pool water.**

Contrary to speculation, Rachel does not let a concussion and ten stitches stop her from attending school two days later. She tells him about the taste after five minutes of Finn alternating between looks of anger and regret – and possibly desperation. Puck just frowns a little because it seems like a strange thing to say. Except, everyone is pointedly ignoring Finn for the most of the meet – if not shooting him down entirely – and Rachel is painstakingly dedicated to ignoring the boy's gaze, so the tension part is pretty much explained. Puck doesn't know that tension is actually a _taste_, but it certainly seems _palpable_.

Finn gets up hurriedly when Mister Schuester asks for volunteers and rushes to the front of the room to perform, his eyes locked intensely on Rachel the entire time, and for a moment it looks like Rachel isn't breathing. Then she coughs heavily, almost like she's choking, and Puck pats her on the back, moving his arm around her for the comfort.

He understands a little after that – being around Finn is tense for everyone in Glee, but Rachel's the one who almost drowned because of him, and looking at him makes her remember it. The taste of chlorine in her mouth, on her tongue, stuck latent in her throat, flooding her lungs.

Puck kind of wants to vomit for a moment.

Finn starts the song, and the feeling doesn't go away.

Puck interrupts him before the verse starts.

"Oh hell _no_ you don't," he says loudly, standing up from his chair and stomping down from the risers to glare at Finn while the music cuts off and Mister Schuester tries to jump in front of him. But Puck will not be denied, because it's only Monday morning and it's just too _early_ to be dealing with this shit.

"Sit down Puck! This is just rude, Finn has the right to-"

"Shut the fuck up and stop making me angry, _that's_ what he has the right to do," Puck interrupts angrily, eyes stuck on the teen in the middle of the room rather than the older man in front of him. Finn's still sporting bruises from his 'lesson' on Saturday – will be for a while if the colour of that shiner on his right eye is any indication, Puck notes with a great deal of satisfaction – and Rachel's sitting in her chair in the risers with all of the Glee girls surrounding her and the gash at the back of her head stitched back together (but no one can see that).

"I'm allowed to sing to her! I deserve to tell my side of the story!"

"No, you _deserve_ to get my foot up your ass – except, no, you'd probably _like _it there," Puck shoots back, and luckily enough Schuester realises the danger quick enough to turn and force Finn back before any blows can fall. "You told your side of the story when you tried to bully Rachel back into dating you, and when you pushed her to cracking her head on the poolside! You almost _killed_ her, you dumb shit! No one hurts my home girl! You don't _deserve_ forgiveness for that, okay! And you aren't butchering a song by '_The Script_' in a shitty attempt to earn it!"

They stand and glare at each other for a few minutes, until Puck feels a soft hand on his shoulder and Finn feels a flat gaze finally meeting his.

"Stop. Just _stop_," is the only direction that Finn gets from the girl, but Rachel delivers it with such stiff, unrelenting authority and decision that he bows his head and sobs to himself, finally realising how hopeless he is for trying. Rachel turns to Puck instead, gives him a gentle smile and nudges him back in the direction of his chair. She turns to follow him up, and Mister Schuester reaches out after her to turn her back, probably wanting some kind of explanation. His hand brushes over her wrist.

What everyone witnesses next is both shocking and totally expected.

Rachel yanks her hand away, stumbles back in fear until she lands in her chair, which skids back to hit the wall. She starts hyperventilating as soon as she hits the seat, one hand clapping around her wrist, then brushing over her shoulders as she shrinks into herself. She's pulled her feet up onto the chair and her knees to her chest before anyone can move over to her, and when her hands slide to cover the back of her head and she whimpers, _Santana_ gets out of her chair and _orders_ all the boys out of the room.

Puck stays for a moment, tries to reach out a hand for the girl, only to have her flinch away from him. He frowns sadly to himself, but he's not going to take this personally, so he just nods. She'd woken up with him in the room next to her the day before, shucked up in the hospital bed for an overnight after they'd stitched her up. Her dad had to go back to work, and Puck had stayed the night anyway – despite all appearances at school, they were old friends, always had been. She'd flinched away when he'd reached out for her then, too, but he'd stayed and talked to her all day, and by the end of it she was fine with him touching her – taking her hand, putting his arm around her, anything that wasn't too heavy or sudden or forceful. She'd been fine with Kurt when he'd visited, but he wasn't exactly the most masculine character anyway, and Blaine's presence was too gentle to set her off. The girls had been fine this morning.

But he understood, he swore he did – she'd been attacked two days ago, and she had bruises, dark and huge, on her shoulders from Finn's hands. She didn't want the boys near her – too big, too intimidating, pushing her into that fear again.

"I'm sorry, Noah," she chokes out after a moment, but he just gives her a small smile. She knows it hurts him to have that refusal, especially since he sat with her for _hours_ yesterday to get back the comfort. She wishes she could be fine for him, but he assures her it's not the case.

"It's okay, babe," he says gently. "I'm here when you need me, okay? I'll go tell Mister Schue about it. And tell Finn to stop trying to slaughter all that is good music." She nods and he starts to move out of the room after the rest of the guys while the girls all shuffle in around her, listening to him sing to himself. "_I'll leave the door on the latch if you ever come back, if you ever come back – there'll be a light in the hall and a key under the mat if you ever come back, there'll be a smile on my face and the kettle on, and it'll be just like you were never gone-"_

The music cuts to a muffled hum when the door closes behind him, and everyone wonders why Finn would ever have the audacity to sing _that_ song. Rachel's still freaking out, though, so Quinn drags her chair right next to her, gearing to talk her down. It's weird, since they rarely talk and mostly they're just civil – the club stopped hating each other after Christmas, when Quinn and Sam broke up and Finn and Rachel got back together - but for some unknown reason Quinn's presence is just _that_ comforting. It works, and Rachel walks out of the room ten minutes later with hardly a slouch to her normally impeccable posture, taking Puck's arm so he can walk her to her next class like the thought of his touch didn't almost make her throw up only moments beforehand.

Finn shuffles off down the hall when Puck's glare gets too much, and Mike's asking Tina why the boy is even able to go to school but Puck doesn't answer them. Neither does Rachel. There had been an argument in the early hours of Sunday morning between the team of Puck and Hiram, and Rachel about that very topic – both of whom thought some sort of charge should be pressed, something, _anything_. She, however, was adamant that the case rest there – that they forget all about it, like it never happened, even if she couldn't look her dads in the eye for the rest of the day or share space with them without wincing. _She_ wasn't forgetting this, and they didn't know why _they_ should.

There had been a lengthy discussion about Drew Gillan, and who he was exactly, because all Puck had figured out was that Finn Hudson was apparently secretly gay and mid-affair. Kurt had been there for that conversation as well, actually – and from the text Puck received from the boy close to midnight last night, Puck quickly figured everything from Finn's sexuality to Rachel's hospital visit and back again had been relayed to the parents. Finn might have been in school, but he wouldn't be going anywhere _else_ until college.

Still, Rachel might pretend to be infallible, and try to prove that he hasn't broken her and she doesn't care, but the breakdown in the choir room is probably the first of many and she still flinches when Finn looks her way or one of the jocks pass her in the halls. She falsifies forgiveness, but Puck knows better. And he's not the only one.

So when Azimio Adams slams her locker shut on his way past her at lunch, leaving the girl with wide eyes and tense shoulders, he finds himself limping into the cafeteria only five minutes later – one hand gripping his stomach and the other covering one eye. No one knows what happened, or how he hurt himself in the five minutes and the three corridors between Rachel's locker and the cafeteria. There's some speculation, but no one really notices when Santana Lopez bumps fists with Puck, passing his table, or how the burly football player jumps away when Brittany Pierce wanders idly by him. They only notice the bruising coming up on his face – and not at all how it matches the mottled look of the two girls' knuckles.

Stacey Kent from the Cheerios pushes Rachel a little too harshly between classes, sending her reeling into Artie's lap. The boy frowns at the departing Cheerio, but wheels Rachel off the class with a smile and some light conversation to calm her down because she looks like a frightened rabbit and she can't quite bring herself to move. Stacey is ten minutes late to World Literature, and when she does forward into the classroom her entire uniform is stained blue, her hair is stuck to her forehead, and her lip is split. Everyone is too concerned about what Coach Sylvester will do to the girl about the uniform to notice Quinn Fabray's smirk in the back row, or the way she victoriously claps hands with Mike Chang beside her.

Dave Karofsky still has the gall to throw a slushy at the girl between Spanish and Math, even though only half the hallway laughs. The other half are wary of retribution, and no one relaxes, even after Mercedes and Tina lead a slushy-soaked Rachel Berry to the nearest bathroom (did she stop breathing when the liquid hit her skin? Was she hyperventilating by the time she got out of the hall? Yeah, but no one mentions that). No one sees Dave Karofsky for the rest of the day – just Rachel Berry cleaned up nicely, half of the glee club flanking her like they're on a timetable, and Noah Puckerman's arm around her shoulder. When Karofsky crawls out of the dumpster at the end of the day with a black eye and lipstick and all over his face, not one single person in McKinley high is surprised. Everyone is quickly realising that messing with Rachel Berry, no matter how trivial an incident, is cause for some _serious_ backlash.

The grin on Tina Cohen-Chang's lips and the way Puck cracks his knuckle when they walk past with Rachel between them? Well, no one asks why.

**/-\**

_And I wish you could give me the cold shoulder  
And I wish you could still give me a hard time  
And I wish I could still wish it was over  
But even if wishing is a waste of time  
Even if I never cross your mind_

_I'll leave the door on the latch  
If you ever come back, if you ever come back_

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_Reviews are the best shock to my system.  
_


	3. Satisfied

_Disclaimer: Nope. Don't own it. But here's some super wordage for your screens._

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**Finn whines like a little bitch for three days before Santana finally snaps and breaks his nose.**

It's not shocking, and no one protests, and Mister Schuester doesn't even yell at her, let alone send her to the principal's office. Evidently enough, even _he_ is sick of Finn's constant barrage of 'woe is me' – which, really, is the surprising part, because Finn is practically Schuester's adopted son, courtesy of that "you remind me of myself" syndrome that a lot of the teachers have. And really, bets were on since Monday afternoon about who from the club would hit him first, so when Santana finally flings a well-aimed fist in the boy's face the worst thought in the room is "_damn, there goes my twenty_," not "_well, shit, that must have hurt_."

Really, he's been going on about how Rachel won't talk to him, and how Karofsky kicked him in the shin this morning, and how he's not allowed to go to the next party because he's been grounded until he's thirty, and he hasn't gotten to watch the latest episode of _Chuck_ because he's not allowed to watch the television _ever_ again, and _on and on and on and on_... Santana is visibly restraining herself for fifteen minutes before she leaps from her chair and smashes his nose in, and everyone is actually kind of relieved at the sound of the boy moaning and swearing on the ground, because he's not whinging out loud to himself (no one else really cares) about his punishments anymore.

"Really, Finnocence, just shut the fuck up!" the Latina growls, standing over him while he rolls around on the floor. "She doesn't want you, because you're _gay_ and you _cheated_ on her! And stop fucking complaining, because you're just lucky you didn't get arrested for pushing her around like that!"

No one mentions that any such event would probably lead to Puck getting arrested too – assault and battery was an _interesting_ thing – but Finn looks cowed by it and he slinks out of the room with a bloody nose and tears in his eyes. Mister Schuester just points Santana back to her seat and crosses his arms.

"God, I am so glad his mum pulled him off the football team," Puck mutters dryly. There are a dozen separate parts to Finn's punishment – no more football being one of them, with glee probably about to follow up on that list - and Puck has come to understand that Burt and Carol _still_ don't think there's enough. He really agrees with that.

"This week, I want you to express yourself."

There's a collective pause at Mister Schuester's ridiculously brief lesson outline before Rachel puts her hand up, and everyone's kind of relieved because she hasn't sung for them since her terrible Bon Jovi impression with Blaine on Saturday (it's Thursday now), and maybe today will be another step better than the last few days where she hasn't broken down or anything, but she's been kind of catatonic. Except she doesn't volunteer a song at all so everyone's a little on the fence about the 'progress' portion of the idea. Speaking is a benchmark though, isn't it?

"That's it? Express yourself? No specific genre?"

"No."

"Not a central artist? A decade?"

"Not at all. Individual expression."

"...Well that's just annoying," Rachel mutters dryly, closing her eyes and sinking back into Puck's arm, slung warmly around her, over the back of her chair in the risers. "But okay."

"Nothing else you want to add, Rachel?"

"Not particularly," she replies offhandedly, and the rest of the club exchanges curious looks. She sits forward rather suddenly. "Unless," she draws out, dragging all the attention back to her. Drama. Curiosity. Finn has left the room, and this is Rachel Berry, this is normal, this is _relief_. "You wouldn't happen to know a song that properly conveys the message 'my boyfriend cheated on me with another boy and wants me back as a gay beard, but hit me when I said no so I cracked my head open and almost drowned', would you Mister Schue?"

"...Uh... no," the teacher replies slowly, awkwardly. Rachel huffs out a sigh, right as Puck starts to grin to himself. "Sorry...?"

"Darn," she deadpans with a snap of her fingers. "Guess there's no expressing myself then."

Puck just chuckles to himself beside her while she gets this self-satisfied smirk on her face that no one else has seen on her before, and the rest of the club exchanges their discomfort as it turns to amusement. If Rachel's joking, then she's _definitely_ feeling better today. And she's a lot more confident today, looking to her Jewish partner in crime with this look on her face that says she has a plan.

"Can I express Puck instead?"

Puck just laughs louder, snatching his arm back from its spot on the back of her chair to cover his gut through the laughter, because the thought of Rachel Berry expressing her inner Noah Puckerman is just _too_ funny. She smiles wryly while everyone around her starts absolutely cackling at the idea.

"I'm not kidding guys. I totally have a song and everything."

The laughter just gets heavier, because the short sentence doesn't sound like the Rachel they know at all, and the thought of Rachel acting like Puck is just absurd. Puck's leaning too far to the side on his chair through his laughter, and he eventually falls to the ground, slumping on the floor with his thunderous laughter. Even Mister Schue is restraining a smile when he gestures for the girl to take the stage. She shakes her head.

"Oh, no, you're not getting it that easy. Rachzilla needs to go change," she says, and if Puck wasn't already dying then he is now.

Rachel just grabs her bag up from the ground beside him and moves to the door, disappearing into the hall with that same smirk on her face. She strides back into the room five minutes later in cargo pants and a white wife beater – there are bruises still dark on her shoulders from where Finn gripped her five days ago, but everyone tries not to pay attention to those - with her hat from their funk number so very long ago stuck on top of her head. The mirth strikes up again. Rachel just keeps up her smirk, shooting Mike a wink and Santana one of Puck's patented '_hey baby_' head nods. Even Mister Schue is joining in with the full-on gut-wrenching laughter now, and Puck is still clutching his stomach on the floor, absolutely _howling_.

But Mike flushes a dark red and Santana does the same – only worse, because her laughter chokes off at the gesture, too, and Quinn's almost falling out of her chair too because of it.

"Holy shit!" the head cheerio manages, earning a glare from her friend. "San's _gone_. She's – she's better at this than he is!"

It probably helps that Rachel keeps a straight face the whole time, totally in character and standing in front of the glee club with the same swagger and stage-presence that they normally attribute to Noah Puckerman. In fact, if she were taller and distinctly less feminine, they could definitely be the same person. Feminine aesthetics ruined things. Mister Schuester manages to calm himself down after a few more moments, but he definitely has tears in his eyes, and suddenly everyone is thankful that Mercedes has her phone out to record this because it's brilliance on every other level.

"Come on guys, settle down," he calls out, even if he is wheezing a little throughout the words. "Let the girl perform!"

Still, even he can't _not_ laugh when Rachel stomps up the steps to snatch Puck's Letterman from the back of his chair, muttering out a loud, somewhat irate "on the back of a _chair_? This jacket should only ever grace the shoulders of a hot Jew!" that has Puck struggling to finally climb back into his seat, body still wracked with unrestrained shakes. She strides back down to stand in front of the group with a decidedly butch swagger, in a Letterman jacket that is far too big for her, but it's still a damned good impression.

She turns back to them and gestures to a still-chuckling Artie, who rolls out to grab an electric guitar to help the rest of the band. When they finally start playing the music Puck's head thunks onto his desk to muffle the laughter because this is just _too good_.

"_I don't want to love you, hold you,  
I don't want know what you're about.  
I don't need your name or number -  
Just want to get in and get out"_

When Puck finally collects himself – and it's hard, because his lips are still pulling up in a grin every time he look at her, copying his crude dance moves with her own fluid grace – he glances around at the rest of the group. Truth be told, this is the first time he's ever seen Rachel be so open with anyone else. Having known her since they met at synagogue (they were six, and in Lima, Ohio, there weren't that many synagogues around, so their meeting was practically inevitable), Puck has been privy to Rachel's creepy intensity and her awesome friendliness alternatively. No one else is as intimately acquainted with the girl, and he knows it, and he always has – she's socially deficient and well aware of it. She doesn't trust people, even if she pretends to, and he's glad – always has been – that she trusts him. Because when Quinn got pregnant with his kid and everyone else was running errands for her and golden boy Finn Hudson, Rachel Berry was drinking beer and playing Mario Kart with him in his bedroom, stopping him from breaking down.

And it's great being Rachel's best friend. But sometimes Puck wishes that everyone else could see how awesome his girlbro is too.

They're seeing it today – right now, in this moment – when she mercilessly pulls him apart in a musical act, copying his mannerisms and his dance moves and his expressions. Only, from the flush on Santana's cheeks and Sam's raised eyebrows and Quinn's intense gaze, Puck kind of thinks she's pulling him off better than he does. He's not offended by that in the slightest – more amused, and slightly flattered really. They're cool.

From the looks of it – and Puck's not at all surprised because he's known her for years and he knows what she's capable of – Rachel knows exactly what she's doing and exactly who she's doing it to. And when she copies some of his more suggestive dance moves - twisting them with her own natural grace until they're totally drool-worthy instead of just funny – and turns her attention directly onto Santana, he's almost dropping his jaw. Because Santana's not laughing anymore – she's burning _right_ on up.

"_Oh baby, let's not pretend.  
It's no accident -  
I know you'll get exactly what you need out of me."_

Rachel leans in close to the cheerleader, eyes locked when she sings the words, and _damn_ – Santana looks like she's about to _leap_ on the girl. And it might be his girlbro and his ex-whatever, but that's _hot_.

Except, then Rachel whirls away like a true rocker, moving over to sing with Artie for a little while, leaving Santana with nothing more than a wink that's practically promising and Puck thinks the Latina almost faints. He also kind of thinks Quinn's gaze is a little too heated, but that can't possibly be true, because that girl's straight as an arrow. Santana? She likes hot things, and doesn't really care about the gender. Rachel?

Well, she says the jury's still out on that one, but Puck's always thought she picked personalities, not parts.

The song finishes with applause and a signature smirk – it's not Rachel's but it looks damned good on her. But the performance isn't quite over, because Rachel makes her way back over to Santana, and no one knows whether it's the tone, or the words, or the facial expression, but what follows is just _perfect_.

"Hey babe, what do you say to just you, me, and the back seat of my pick-up – wanna make out?"

And Puck can't help it – he falls right back off his chair and _rolls_ down the risers in laughter, landing face down at the front of the room. It's made so much funnier by the fact that Santana _almost_ looks like she wants to accept the offer. She doesn't – stays in her chair while Rachel goes back to her own and everyone laughs until the end of the lesson.

But Puck isn't surprised when the Latina ditches the Cheerios table to nab a seat next to Rachel at lunch. He _is_ kind of surprised that Rachel stays in her cargoes and _his_ Letterman, splitting her time between her own comments and the same ones everyone expects from his mouth for the rest of the day. But she's loosening up around them (finally), and it sucks that it took being shoved around and almost drowning for her to do it, but he thinks it's pretty cool that she finally is.

On top of that, lingering concern for her personal health aside, everyone seems to like this Rachel – who does the best imitation of Puck ever and doesn't wear argyle and never speaks in long paragraphs and big words. That's not surprising at all – he's _always_ liked this Rachel. She's just used to pushing people away before they get to see her.

"Rachel's... easier," Tina tells him as soon as Santana's grabbed said diva's arm and dragged her away towards the end of their lunch period – Puck has suspicions about that, but he's not going to fault Santana's choice of new _best friend_. Whatever. The cheerleader won't hurt her, so he doesn't worry. He just nods at Tina, totally understanding what she means. "Is it – is it because of Saturday? Did she hit her head too hard or something? What changed?"

Puck just laughs, frowning a little.

"Nothing did. She's always been like this, it's just that no one really gets to know her," he says simply, and Tina seems a little put out by it, like she realises it too. Mercedes listens in across the table. It probably doesn't help that much that _Noah Puckerman_ knows Rachel better than the other 'losers' in the school – he's thrown his fair share of slushies at her, and not without regret, but they have arrangements for those things that no one else will ever need to know. Puck and Rachel have been friends for years, and experts at hiding it for almost as long. "When we were little, she got a lot of crap about her dads, right? And I know that didn't change, because she still does, but by the time we got _here_ Rach kind of just figured there wasn't a place for her out there socially, and resigned herself to that. Figured if people weren't willing to try to see past who she is at school then they aren't worth trusting with who she is at all."

"Social anxiety?" Tina asks sadly. Puck just shrugs.

"Something like that," he replies. "People weren't good to her. That's just the way things were."

"We haven't made any more effort getting to know her lately than we have before," Mercedes puts in curiously, but not unkindly. To be honest, after Santana had blabbed about Finn losing his V-card, there had been drama by the boatload until New Years, but then Finn had gotten back with Rachel and everything had settled down, and the Glee club had stopped tearing at each other's throats all the time. They weren't all sunshine and rainbows and buddy-buddy 'let's hang out on weekends' – apart from the occasional party, like their pool party on Saturday – but they weren't having a go at each other all the time, and Rachel wasn't making a big deal over all the solos, and the drama toned down. So everyone from Mercedes to Santana and back had been _not friends_ with Rachel, but _friendly_ on a level. They hadn't gotten to know her, but they'd stopped raging against her – and coming up on late-Spring, that was cool. "So what _did_ change?"

"You've all been looking out for her this week," Puck tells them with a small smile. "Like friends. Or guard dogs, at times, really. But it's different for her – like, you're not doing it because you're team mates or whatever, it's because you're friends? So she's trusting you." He says it lightly, smiling all the while. But then his face clouds over with obvious rage, seriousness, warning. Rachel is his girl – not his lover, because they would wreck that scene – but his best friend and his bro – _girl_bro – and no one messes with her. Not anymore. This weekend scared him – it was so close, so bad. It wouldn't happen again. "Wreck her and I'll hurt you."

It's only for a moment, but it gets the message across to everyone assembled – Mercedes, Tina, Artie, and Mike. Brittany just sits on Artie's lap, staring blankly into the distance, but Puck doesn't feel the need to warn her off of anything. It's Brittany – she'd never do a thing to Rachel, or to anyone, and if she did it wouldn't be on purpose and he knows it. He yawns when the bell goes for the end of his lunch period, standing up from the table abruptly.

"Spanish time, Britt," he reminds lazily. "Later bitches."

Brittany gets up and follows him out of the cafeteria, skipping along beside him on the way to Spanish. He doesn't really know where Santana stole Rachel off to, but he kind of wants to, because they are undoubtedly _hot_ together – the both of them share his Spanish class, so he guesses that explanation is not too far away.

He doesn't really pay much notice to Quinn when she joins the two of them on Brittany's other side, except to give her a sort of polite _'yeah, hi'_ nod before they reach the classroom. He's not awkward around her – in fact, with Quinn he's entirely comfortable, because having a baby does that to a person, and he does love her in a strictly non-romantic way that he doesn't really dwell on – but they don't always need to talk about things. They aren't _saps_. There were a few times they _were_, but it isn't like glimpsing the girl sent him into a spiraling abyss of doom and gloom and memories of loss and separation _every damned time_.

Only sometimes. That sentiment is shared.

So he and Quinn have this deep 'you were the mother/father of my baby' connection that ends in little need for continuous verbal communication and the occasional shock drop on one another's doorstep for tears and sobs and alcohol, and if anyone ever hurt the girl he'd personally take a baseball bat to their knees. But they aren't, like, _besties_ or anything.

That is Rachel's job.

Rachel – who, with Santana - is nowhere to be seen in their Spanish classroom, but Mister Schuester is standing at the front of the class and waiting for his students, and since Schue is one of the few teachers at McKinley high that Puck actually respects, even in the slightest, he hastens to take his seat.

Santana and Rachel are _not_ the last two people to enter the classroom – heck, they aren't even late – but they certainly are the most interesting.

Santana might have led Rachel away from the table at lunch, but it's Rachel who's dragging the Cheerio along by the hand now. The Latina looks significantly dazed, and there's the slightest stumble in her step, and he might be imagining the slightly off-centred look of her ponytail or the dishevelled look of her Cheerios jacket, but Puck doesn't think he is. Further than that, her lips seem a little redder, maybe a little plumper than normal – _why does he notice these things?_ – and Rachel's hat is obviously on backwards, her hair a little more ruffled than before. She's definitely not dazed though – just smirking again while she leads Santana all the way to the chair in front of Brittany and takes the one in front of Puck for herself.

"Jew fist bump?" he offers as she sits down, and she grins and complies while Santana sits, blank and voiceless, to her left, staring off into space. He can't help but congratulate his friend, still sporting his Letterman. "Get some, Berry!" He hardly notices Quinn scoffing on his right and directing her gaze pointedly at Mister Schuester at the front of the room.

"San, can you help me with my Spanish after school?" Brittany asks idly, cocking her head to the side when her friend doesn't answer her for a few moments. "San?" When she isn't met with an answer again, she turns to Rachel and giggles like this is some normal occurrence. "I think you broke her, Rach."

Rachel just shrugs.

"Hey, she's the one who jumped _me_, okay?" is her only defense. "Really, it's not my fault she wasn't prepared for my seriously awesome making out skills."

"You're taking this _me_ thing to heart, aren't you?" Puck asks with a smile, and she shrugs with the same expression. "You are really the best girlbro ever. Also, did I mention how great your song choice was? Social Code? It was great. I want to know how far you can take this."

She winks at him with that look that says '_I'm in_' and immediately turns to straddle her chair, sliding it past him to Quinn's desk, where she drops her elbows and holds up her head by her chin.

"Hey baby mama," she practically growls out, "my place. Seven. I'll show you a good time."

Quinn stares at her blankly, but Puck can see that she's forcing even _that_ because her lips are quirking up at the edges. He has to wonder for a second why she works so hard to hold back that smile, and why her gaze was so damned heavy in glee, because seriously now, this is Quinn Fabray. Straightest girl in the school, right? _Right_? And then he has this second-long argument in his head about the sexual orientation of one Quinn Fabray while Brittany just stares at her book, closed on the desk in front of her, and Santana's gaze remains entirely unfocussed, staring off into space with her lips parted.

"That was a terrible line when he used it, and it still is now," the head cheerleader replies in a deadpan, but it's not as scathing as it should be. Rachel probably figures she's finding this as funny as everyone else is, so she winks at the girl and smirks a little more. "It's going to take a _lot_ more than that to get _me_ hot, Berry."

Except then the smirk turns into something a lot more devilish, and Puck has the decency to cover his mouth before his laughter starts.

"Oh, you're going to wish you didn't say that," he manages eventually, but he doesn't continue and Rachel doesn't elaborate – just turns back on her chair and moves back to her table as the lesson starts. Santana finally lets out a shuddery breath and a muttered "_ah señor dulce Todopoderoso_" as she comes back to the present. Rachel pats her lightly on the shoulder.

"I am not your '_sweet lord almighty_', Santana, but thank you for the compliment."

Quinn almost decides to ignore it – _almost_ – until Rachel turns back to give her this dark, coy smile that she can't take to mean anything other than '_challenge accepted_', and she doesn't know how she feels about that. Puck just watches all of this with an abrupt fascination and the thought that while Rachel's new chosen game isn't the most virtuous of all activities, at least she's not breaking down in tears and covering her stitches in her bedroom right now. Also, his life is suddenly turning into a really awesome television show.

And to think, this all started with Santana breaking Finn's nose.

**/-\**

_I'm only in this, baby, just for tonight -  
But I promise that I'll leave you  
I'll leave you satisfied_

* * *

_Reviews are my kick start. Get with that. :)  
_


	4. Brand New Day

_Disclaimer: this is only here because of my mostly-impeccable moral code. I do not own things. Okay. Cool._

* * *

**The colour of Rachel's bedroom wall is far from unfamiliar.**

To Puck, anyway. And to Kurt. Mercedes? Well, she's never been there, and she seems a little uncomfortable with how obviously at home the two boys are in the room. Blaine just sits a little curiously in the corner, eyeing up the laptop that's been left open on the desk, itunes displayed on the screen with an absurdly high time totalled at the bottom of it. Kurt is standing by the open closet, humming to himself while he flicks through the shirts on the racks like he's looking for something in particular – Mercedes doesn't know why he would be looking for anything in Rachel Berry's closet, but he's content there so she can't fault him. Puck is just staring absently at the window, arms crossed over his chest and fingers drumming on his bicep while he sits on the girl's bed.

Mercedes has the desk chair, and she's damned uncomfortable in it – it's a cozy chair, no doubt about it, but this is Rachel Berry's room. And she can tell, too, because it's like everything has this perfect place and there's not a single thing out of line. It's kind of like being in Miss Pillsbury's office (or whatever her surname is now, she doesn't really know) – sickeningly _perfect_, except not really, because there's personal touches all over the place.

Rachel herself left the room ten minutes ago saying something about her dads and pizza. She returns now with the latter.

She passes one to Kurt - who, in a moment of humility, drops to take a seat on the floor near Mercedes, readying himself to share – another pizza box to Blaine, who looks away from the laptop to receive it. Then the girl drops into the free space on her bed beside Puck, and they share the last pizza like old friends. Which, really, Mercedes has kind of figured out they are.

"Double bacon cheeseburger," Puck grumbles, and Mercedes looks at him oddly, because he's staring at his pizza in awe and Rachel's stealing a slice of it right beneath his gaze. "Aw, Rach, you spoil me."

"Spoil _you_?" the girl replies in a laugh. "Like hell. You're my excuse. I'm spoiling myself."

"You're both Jewish, isn't there something against bacon there?" Mercedes asks, more than a little confused while Kurt passes her his pizza box. They've been sharing their pizzas since their friendship started. Then she looks directly at Rachel. "Aren't you, like, hardcore vegan?"

The Broadway diva shrugs. "I cheat sometimes," is her explanation. "Contrary to what I'm told by '_Scott Pilgrim Versus The World_', there is no vegan police, and I'm not going to lose my awesome Vegan super powers if I indulge every once in a while."

"Also," Puck puts in flatly, "bacon is really good."

They ignore any further confusion from her and go back to splitting their pizza, and Mercedes stares at them for another few moments before Kurt taps her on the knee and reminds her she has a pizza of her own to dig in to.

"Rach, I know we weren't 'friends' before, but why was it that when I came over for that makeover you didn't show me your closet?" Kurt asks in the silence, earning a raised eyebrow from the girl in question. He shrugs. "Curiosity. It never really struck me before today, but you actually have some really nice things in there. I've been known to give you the scathing comments about your fashion, but you could have proven me wrong every other day for the last year and a half."

Rachel just takes another bite of her pizza, glances at Puck beside her and shrugs.

"Kurt, how many times did you wear the latest designer brand to school, only to have it stained bright in corn syrup before lunch?" she asks a little dully, and he frowns at the thought. Concession, Mercedes thinks as she looks over his pinched expression and his short nod. "There's no point in wearing nice things to school if they're just going to wind up wrecked. The stuff I wear to school? Cheap. Might not look the best, but it gets the job done. And wearing different clothes to school wasn't going to change anything, really, because I'd still be a loser from the Glee club with an insufferable personality. Who I am there, and who I am here, don't have to meet. So people can sit there and tell me how 'unfashionable' I am, and it goes over my head, because they don't _know_ me."

It's all very resigned and matter-of-fact, and not for the first time Mercedes is struck by some sense of regret. Other than taking all the solos in glee club and being prone to overdramatic tendencies, there's really no excuse for the way that Rachel has been treated. For sure, the girl has made mistakes, but she's never been mean – not to Mercedes, not ever. And really, then, where did the dislike ever spring from.

"Sheep," Rachel drawls from the bed, her vacant gaze stuck on Mercedes. Said intended shivers a little at the look.

"What?"

"You were a sheep," Rachel says again, like it explains everything, like she's in Mercedes's head. "That's what you're wondering. I was hated – bottom of the social heap, second only to Jewfro, and as far as anyone else cared, I was okay with that. Your natural inclination by that standard? Follow suit. Because if you could hate me too, then you would be better than me."

Mercedes shudders, the pizza in her mouth turning to the taste of cardboard, because it's a totally true but totally tasteless explanation. And more than that, apparently Rachel does have a sixth sense, because she picked the thought right out of her head.

Creepy.

"It's okay, Mercedes, I don't mind," Rachel continues with a smile. "People are people, and people change. You cleaned me up on Monday. So I don't mind."

She's struck by the realisation that Rachel's intensity is deterrent. Sure, she's a little bit weird in the head (aren't they all?), and a little anal-retentive, and quite obviously obsessive-compulsive in a lot of ways. But when she's not at school or in Glee, and she's not warding off attacks from all sides, Rachel's not even half as overbearing or obnoxious as she is in it. In fact, she's actually pretty cool. Sure, she's scarily organised, and a little socially defunct, but she's kind of funny in a quirky way, and she can hold some pretty good conversation. More than that, it's pretty evident she holds few grudges, and she's pretty damned easy to please – although, by the looks of it, Puck tries a lot harder than he generally has to.

And really, the longer Mercedes sits at the desk in her room – watching as Blaine drags up some Katy Perry song from the vast itunes library and starts dancing around the room with Kurt, or refereeing Puck and Blaine's arm wrestle, or putting in her own opinions to Kurt's dissection of Rachel's wardrobe – the more she wants to befriend Rachel Berry. Being privy to the conversations of said Broadway diva and the people who are already her friends is giving her a hell of a lot of insight on the girl, on her relationships, and it's certainly spurring the thought.

"So what's the game plan, Rach?" Puck asks at one point, and he's tearing pages out of a spare notebook so he can scrunch them up and play basketball with the small trash can beside the desk, across the room from him. From a glance at Kurt, Mercedes figures he doesn't know what 'game' Puck's referencing, but Rachel's all-too-polite answer kind of indicates that she definitely does.

"Oh, I don't know, Noah? Specifics? To which game are you referring?" the girl says, but it's _too_ sweet with the accompanying smile to be anything but jokingly constructed. Puck just smirks.

"Quinn Fabray."

There's an odd silence and an exchange of unsure glances between Kurt and Mercedes, but Rachel just turns to Puck with a flourish and a smirk, and links her fingers to crack her knuckles. Blaine winces at the sound – simultaneous, because Kurt does too.

"There is no _game plan_," Rachel says after a moment, spreading her hands a little – a gesture of innocence, all too obviously staged. "Not for tomorrow, anyway. She'll be _expecting_ it tomorrow."

"Suspense," Puck says with an approving nod. "Let her sweat. And get comfortable again. And then - attack."

"You're _attacking_ Quinn?" Kurt asks, voice filled with confusion and a little concern. Rachel just shakes her head while Puck grins, his mind wandering away somewhere or other. Mercedes just watches it all unfold with narrowed eyes and curiosity and warning – these two will not be messing with Quinn. Rachel might be a bit cool and totally worth befriending, but Quinn was totally there first. And Mercedes is nothing if not loyal.

"No," Rachel says simply. "Not attacking. I believe the correct term is-"

"_Woo_ing," Puck says for her, nodding to himself absently, and Rachel copies the motion.

"Wooing."

"Seducing works too."

"Probably."

"...Ensnaring?"

"...Too far, Noah. Too far."

"No, wait, what?" Mercedes interrupts quickly, and she coughs a little because her confusion has sent her voice right up in pitch which sounds kind of awkward. There's a certain exasperation with the situation – Puck would naturally be involved in any such scheme. Sure, there was a rumour at school today that Rachel had been caught making out in the choir room with Santana Lopez, but it didn't strike Mercedes even for a second as plausible Rachel Berry behaviour, and neither does this. Knowing that Rachel is involved – well, that's where the whole thing gets weird, and Mercedes thinks she must be tripping. "You are going to seduce Quinn Fabray. You, _Rachel Berry_, are going to seduce _Quinn Fabray_?"

Rachel just narrows her eyes – not _at_ Mercedes, not at _anyone_, more just at some small part of the idea. She looks fierce, in a way. Determined. "I was issued with a challenge in the throes of Spanish class today, and I fully intend to commit!" and, well, that definitely sounds like something Rachel Berry would say, even if it is in regards to the seduction of a girl. "The gauntlet has been thrown!"

"It certainly helps that Fabray's been topping your girl crush list since eighth grade," Kurt puts in mildly, cocking his head to the side and tapping his chin idly. Mercedes just gapes, because Kurt seems so accepting of this entire situation – _she_ didn't even know Rachel swung that way until today! Rachel doesn't deny it – even for a moment – just gives Kurt this guilty smile and bites her lip a little. "Can I help pick your outfits? You're dropping the argyle now, I presume – having had the entire school warded off of you."

And Rachel just nods, skipping over to the closet while Kurt picks himself up off the ground and moves to assist her. Mercedes is still running all of this insanity through her mind, because she might not have said a single bad word to Rachel since Sectionals, but she still never thought she'd be sitting in the girl's bedroom with Noah Puckerman and Kurt Hummel and Blaine Anderson while the lot of them manufacture plans to _turn Quinn Fabray gay_.

But then Kurt pulls a slinky black dress from the closet and announces that "this would go _great_ with your stitches, Rach!" and Rachel starts giggling, toying with the Star Of David hanging around her neck while Puck shouts out stupid ideas for this plot of theirs and Blaine noisily counters all of them across the room, and Mercedes realises this isn't so bad. In fact, it's kind of funny. Not-so-covert operations, she figures, with humour in mind, and maybe she's a little curious about what Rachel can do to Quinn and how far this will go. Because the plan isn't to hurt Quinn, and in a way it sounds like Quinn knows all about it, and really, what could it hurt?

So by the end of the night she's in on it, and Kurt's picked out an outfit for Rachel for every day of the next three weeks, and Blaine has successfully shot down every one of Puck's terrible 'romantic ideas' (Mercedes has the suspicion that Puck made at least half of them up with the _intention_ of having them denied). Somehow, amidst all the planning for '_Operation Fabgay_' – as Puck so eloquently dubs it – Rachel manages to shove a thin stack of sheet music off on her and Puck and asks them to "please, please consider it, because it's a pretty cool song and I'm sure you two could make it awesome, and yes there's a guy at school who plays the harmonica", and they have a potential number for Glee tomorrow. And more than that, she's realised that Rachel Berry is actually really cool to hang out with, and she's probably been terribly unfair to the girl – even though Rachel has acted pretty insufferable, and admits it – and she'd like to be Rachel's friend and _fix_ this.

So when they're all forwarding out through the door at the end of the night, Mercedes hangs back for a moment and looks to Rachel more than a little bashfully.

"I wanted to say I'm sorry, Rachel. I haven't treated you that well over the years, and the way you have acted in school isn't any kind of excuse for that. But after tonight – I mean, you're pretty cool," she says, and she doesn't think she's ever been this unsure of her words before. It's not that she doesn't mean them, it's just that she doesn't know if she's _saying_ this right. "What I – what I _mean_ to say is," she says, taking a breath to steady herself and just _get it out _already, because Rachel's looking at her in a little bit of astonishment. "I-I'm sorry for every bad thing I've ever said, and I'd really, _really_ like to be your friend if – if you could forgive me...?"

Rachel just stares at her for a few minutes, blinks twice, and maybe _'I want to be your friend'_ is a little grade-school, but it's out there now and she can't take it back. It's the sentiment that counts, right? But then Rachel smiles widely – happy and gentle all at the same time – and Mercedes knows she's got this right.

"I'd like that," she says. "_If_ you can forgive my behaviour too."

And then Mercedes smiles and nods, and Rachel promises to give her a lift to school in the morning, and Mercedes hugs her, and it's such a great feeling, because she just knows Rachel's going to be a good friend to her – one of the best – and today's taken a turn for the better. She walks happily out the door, off to Kurt's car, and hops in the back seat so he can give her a lift home, asking "what was that about? You're friends now? _Finally_," and Mercedes just laughs to herself in the back of the car when he starts spouting off shopping plans for the weekend and Blaine starts messing with the radio. She shuffles the sheet music in her hands - she'll be practicing it on repeat for the rest of the night because it's _just so fitting_ - and she's excited that she'll be rocking out in glee with Puck tomorrow afternoon while Phase One commences.

And really, Phase One is _just_ as exciting as the Glee number – if not _way_ more than.

Phase one, of course, has few details and hardly any action (nor _inter_action, more rather) involved. Nonetheless, Mercedes is absolutely certain - within three minutes of Rachel Berry stepping foot on McKinley soil - that Phase One of Operation Fabgay is going to be just as funny as the rest of it. And it's not Quinn's reaction that begins it, because she hasn't even _seen_ Quinn yet – it's the _rest_ of the student body. They exit the girl's car like any normal day, but the walk up to the steps is practically stolen from some comedic chick flick, where the hot girl walks up the stairs turning heads and spurring gasps all around. Rachel steps through the double doors with a sway of her hips and a smirk, and Mercedes loyally at her side, and right on cue Azimio is practically drooling to their left for Rachel Berry to shove her bag off to while Puck turns up out of nowhere to sling an arm around her shoulder. And just like that, Puck and Rachel steal every ounce of awe from the school, and start their stride down the hallway – Mercedes gaining the same looks they do merely by her glad association and Azimio Adams walking dazedly along in their wake, lugging Rachel's bag and staring at her ass.

"Rach?" Mercedes hazards with a grin, watching one of the footballers walk right into his girlfriend's open locker door when he turns his head too far looking at them – and it's so ridiculously cliché, but it's still goddamned funny. "Kurt picked _good_." And really, he did, because Rachel was seriously working the whole shorts-shirt-and-over shirt thing. "Only thing you're missing is your hat."

"I've thought about this whole thing," Rachel tells her while they turn a corner and make for the stairs. Mercedes wonders if this means she's wimping out, but Rachel still has that weird smirk on her face that no one had seen before yesterday. "And I'm only wearing that hat when I'm wooing."

"Isn't this all part of the 'wooing' plan," Puck asks a little dryly, glancing with a quirked eyebrow at Azimio behind them, who follows them dutifully up the stairs. "You have a lap dog. _Nice_. What did I tell you years ago, Rach? You could have boys begging at your feet."

"Instead I impose my crazy," Rachel replies idly. "And no. It might be part of the big plan, but today isn't about wooing." Her smirk get a little more pronounced as they approach her locker, sights setting on the three Cheerios huddled to the side of the hallway in conversation. "Today is about _torture_."

And Mercedes can only smirk as Rachel leaves Puck's arm to open her locker and Puck nabs her bag back off Azimio, sending the boy off with a slap to the back of the head. It's not this interaction that catches her, though – it's the three Cheerios a little a ways down the hall. Brittany stares off into space – characteristic, really, that's just Brittany for you. Quinn, unfortunately, is facing the other direction. Santana – well, she's the first to notice – stands up suddenly straighter, jaw dropping for a few moments.

"Oh, hot _damn_," floats across the hall, and it's a little staccato, but straight to the point. Classic Santana. Rachel might not see it, because she's getting thing out of her locker with her gaze forced forward and that smirk on her face, but Santana's flushing bright red – almost as bad as her uniform – and Mercedes has never seen _that_ before."_Legs_."

Puck snorts a little beside her, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like "at least it's in English this time". Quinn, finally, turns around, obviously curious as to what's drawn her friend's attention. Her gaze, Mercedes notes, snaps to Rachel like she's got some kind of automatic lock-on, and Puck coughs out a laugh and a quiet "shift," that Mercedes doesn't understand until Rachel follows the direction flawlessly – shifts her weight oh-so-slowly from one foot to the other, skin sliding against skin.

Reaction is immediate.

Santana practically chokes. Mercedes doesn't notice it until Puck nudges her and turns the other way, but he chuckles out a "check out Fabray's ears," while he does, and that's when she sees it. A flush, barely there at all – tips of her ears going pink, and then she seems to grit her teeth, setting her jaw, and inside Mercedes is kind of cackling. Rachel shuts her locker a little louder and a little more sudden than usual, and Mercedes has to look away and cover her mouth to mask the laughter when Santana jumps and Quinn whirls back around, ears burning now. But Puck and Rachel are like a well-oiled machine – and Mercedes would probably find it at the least a little disconcerting that they're so good at this thing they're doing if it wasn't so damned funny – and turning the other way would not for a second be saving Quinn Fabray. So she follows her two friends as they take the steps across the hallway.

"Hey guys," Rachel says, twirling a bit of her hair around her finger innocently enough, but Mercedes knows better. "Britt, I was just wondering if you wanted a _ride_ tonight."

And if that isn't one of the most ambiguous statements in the _history_ of ambiguous statements, Mercedes doesn't know what is. She has to give the girl some kudos – just the right amount of exaggeration to bring attention to the word without making it seem totally intentional. Still, the intended effect is made. Santana looks like she'd about to start drooling. Quinn just forces herself to stare at the locker beside her, ears going a deeper shade of red. Puck and Mercedes exchange a glance when Brittany smiles lightly, dropping her eyes to Rachel from the ceiling.

"Oh. Rach. Hi. You look hot today," the blonde girl says, and it always sounds sweet rather than sleazy coming from Brittany – she says it absently, like it's a fact rather than an opinion, but with this innate sense of appreciation that Rachel seems to just smile at. "Dance, right? Yeah – I mean, please. A lift would be great. After Glee?"

"Sure thing," Rachel says lightly. "See you later Britt, _girls_."

And then she walks off - leaving Brittany to smile at the ceiling again, and Santana dazed and staring into empty space, and Quinn glaring at the wall - with Puck's arm back around her and Mercedes at her side with a fist-bump and a shared smirk.

"It's _all_ about the teasing," Rachel tells her, like it's some kind of inside joke, and Mercedes recognises it as a Celibacy club slogan, so it's certainly not lost on her. Puck just laughs to himself, dropping both girls at their homerooms and going off on his own for the rest of the day.

_That_ is just the beginning, of course – Phase One consists of a full-day visual assault, very little of it involving direct contact. Mostly, Rachel just does little things – puts herself on show, in a sense – without ever actually speaking directly to Quinn. In fact, despite a little exaggeration here and there, few of Rachel's actions are particularly unusual or staged – she twirls her hair around her fingers or toys with her pens in class, or throws around coy smiles and light words with the rest of the glee clubbers, or sips a little too sensually on a slushy at lunch, and god forbid anyone even dips into the pile of well-placed words and actions that is _gym_ _class_ – but essentially, Phase One is seemingly a success. Quinn Fabray is seen throughout the majority of her day with a flush of some capacity to her ears, or her face, or her neck, and a stiff jaw and a forced stare in any direction that doesn't hold Rachel Berry.

In Glee, after school, Rachel does nothing to attract attention – and the lack of vocalisation or movement - well that's what _gets_ it for her. Santana takes the seat directly beside her and spends the entire meet with her eyes locked on the girl to her right, and it's a little bit creepy – this complete one-eighty that Santana's done, so Rachel must be a damned good kisser, and Phase One must be pretty freaking effective. Quinn sits at the complete opposite end of the room, but Mercedes catches her looking over a few times – wouldn't be noticeable if she wasn't looking, but she is, and it makes her smirk.

Puck offers her a fist-bump while Artie sings out in front of them all, like he knows exactly what she's thinking. Really, he's a kind of decent guy and she's coming to realise that. Sure, he's had his moments in the past where she's thought it – Puck could be nice, and sweet, and show this strong sense of integrity – but then he would revert to harsh words and womanizing, and those moments would be gone. Around Rachel – and now, maybe, around her – he still drops the comments and the pick-up lines, but it's more _funny_ than anything else. And she knows he'd do anything for Rachel – _anything at all_ – even if she doesn't know why that is or how exactly she knows that.

But she likes this Puck, who offers her fist bumps, and helps to taunt Quinn Fabray, and laughs at Santana Lopez's libido. _Rachel's_ Puck. _Noah_. And so, she's kind of excited to sing with him, and when Artie finishes his song to a round of applause they both stand together and make their way down to the front of the club. Finn isn't here – quite possibly he's been pulled out of Glee, but no one has really bothered so far to make sure – and everyone else is loose and happy and relaxed, and Santana is making moon eyes at Rachel while Quinn scoffs in the corner, and Puck picks up a guitar and Sam sits back in his seat with a harmonica (which is weird, but given his lips not a shocker, and hey, Rachel was right, someone did play it), but it's absolutely perfect.

"So we were supposed to express ourselves," Mercedes hazards, and not for the first time in the last few days, she's a little unsure of her words. "And..."

"It might not be ourselves that we're expressing," Puck says for her, putting up that faux-uncaring '_I'm-king-shit_' tone of voice that everyone is kind of used to while he says something that probably shouldn't make as much sense as it does. Normalcy is grand. "But we are expressing something. That we're feeling, and that we hope is happening, or will happen, or whatever."

Mister Schuester purses his lips a little at the breach of subject, but nods anyway. Curiosity probably getting the best of him, Mercedes thinks. But she's thankful, because she actually really wants to do this – declare it, really. And she wants people to listen, because she really _feels_ this song. Feels like it will all get better.

Puck starts to play – light, individual notes plucked, Rachel beaming from her seat. Artie steals up a bass guitar, quickly recognising the song and coming in at the right time, flawlessly followed by Sam on the harmonica, and before Puck even starts singing the first verse (it was going to be her until they realised those lyrics? Well, to him they had a lot more relevance and a lot more regret) it's pretty obvious that this is going to be good. One of the band boys – no one knows their names, but they should probably find out – gets over to the drums for his cue, and Puck starts singing with practiced ease.

"_How many of you people out there  
have been hurt in some kind of love affair?  
And how many times do you swear that you'll never love again?"_

They split the song, and considering they only practiced through it in the morning, and again at lunch, and only Sam came to help them, it's sounding pretty damned good. Some of the club are dancing along in their seats, all smiling, all getting to understand, and then Mercedes moves forward to pull Rachel out of her chair and dance along with them out on the floor, and Brittany is the next one up to join them.

"_You can turn the clock to zero, honey -  
I'll sell the stock, we'll spend all the money,  
We're starting up a brand new day.  
Turn the clock all the way back -  
I wonder if she'll take me back -  
I'm thinking in a brand new way."_

Everyone slowly moves to join them on the floor, joining into the impromptu 'dancing' session like they do in this club, like they do when they sing and they _mean_ it. Mercedes and Puck sing their lead, and Sam plays his harmonica like a pro, and the rest of them supply backing in all the right places while Brittany gives Rachel a spin and they giggle along like old friends. The song isn't about lost love or anything – sometimes lyrics are a little misleading, so the sentiment is kind of understandable. It's about letting go, moving on, starting again, ignoring all the bad things and focussing on the good, possibility, reformation – a _brand new day_ – exactly what Mercedes wants, what Puck is hoping for, what Rachel _needs_.

And the club – well, by the end of it Mercedes thinks they _get_ it. She thinks they understand. McKinley's Glee club has had its drama, and more than a fair share of it to be honest. But they can all move past it, and move past the words and the insults, the slushies and the heartbreak. They can look for the good in each other instead of the bad and start again – like she's going to do, is doing, with Rachel. And their friendships and relationships – they aren't going to be like they are now – existent only when convenient, pragmatic, all talk. They need to be real. And this is the chance for them all to do that. The wide smiles on her friends' faces and the hugs that are going around make her think that they _have_ to get it. They have to understand. There's no way they can't.

And she exchanges this wide grin with Puck, because he thinks so too, and this was _just so awesome_, and Mister Schue thinks so too because he has this brilliant, wide smile on his face and this glistening in his eyes while he tells them a simple "that was... _amazing_, guys" that speaks volumes.

And really, it was, because she and Puck? They make Sting sound _good_.

* * *

_Turn the clock to zero, sister -  
You'll never know how much I missed her.  
Starting up a brand new day._

_Turn the clock to zero, boss -  
The river's wide, we'll swim across.  
Started up a brand new day_

_

* * *

_

_Reviews are cool. I like them a lot.  
_


	5. Lost In Stereo

_Disclaimer: Unnecessary. I'm in highschool and broke. Does that say it?_

_Sorry about the extending time between chapters – on top of being a generally lazy person, I'm currently working on a super long standalone that may or may not be finished sometime before the holidays are over. As is tradition, I make no promises. If you're interested in following me (and heckling me for updates) over on tumblr there's a link through on my profile (so you can be spammed with my general insanity and hear about all the wonderful things I learn while trolling Urban Dictionary. No, I don't have a life)._

_These are getting longer. __Suffer__._

* * *

**The house is a little scary, to be honest.**

Of course, being honest about it would imply that she was scared by something, and she is Santana_ Lopez_ – resident badass - courageous, uncaring, untouchable, _unscareable_. Admittedly, no, that lasr one's not even a word, but she is _so_ badass that she can use non-existent words to describe herself and still make sense. However, badass or not, somewhere deep (deep, deep, _deep_, beneath hundreds of layers of wittiness, sex appeal and pure awesomeness) inside, Santana does have to admit that the house is kind of intimidating, and she's almost (but no one will ever know) shaking in her proverbial boots.

Proverbial, because at the moment she's rocking flip-flops.

The house itself isn't really the daunting. It's not like that hulking creeper house at the end of a secluded road that you think is going to suck you in and leave you to be caught and murdered in the basement. It doesn't look haunted, the paint's not curling, the house doesn't look more than twenty years old, and she's fairly certain serial killers have never lived in this particular home. In fact, the outer aesthetics of the place are pretty brilliant – it's kind of quaint - _welcoming_, even - modern, and you can tell that the family is pretty well-off without being flashy. Fitting, she figures, because Rachel herself is pretty modest about everything other than her talent. It's the owners that intimidate her, and she hasn't even seen them yet.

It's in the plans though. She has gotten out of her car, and faced the scary house, sucked in a breath and set her shoulders to face this head on with courage and badassery, and she is _totally rethinking this_. Because surely Rachel Berry has gone home at the end of her days in tears and told her dads about the insults and the slushies and the dumpsters and the three Cheerios responsible for all of them (even if Brittany doesn't really count). And if she has – _which she must have_ – then her two dads will know who Santana is and what she's done to their daughter, and no amount of Glee time, nor recounting of the most epic make-out session _ever_ in her _life_, will change that fact, nor save her from their wrath.

But she is Santana Lopez, HBIC of McKinley high school – occasionally contested by one Quinn Fabray, but _whatever_ – and total badass, and if she hesitates on her way to the front door, then that's okay because clearly she's coming up with the best attack plan and _not_ thinking about turning tail to _flee_.

**Clearly**.

She finally made it to the front door, pauses (barely) before rapping her knuckles on the wood, and then taps her foot in impatience (anxiety, _liar_). And then she waits in a moment of foot-tapping, and pursed lips, and invisible contradictions that she will never admit to the world. Imagine her shock when it's not a big, burly, angry-looking man that answers the door – it's Mercedes.

They stare at each other.

Santana crosses her arms.

Mercedes blinks.

"Yo, Rach, I think you have a booty call!"

And then Santana stamps her foot once and uncrosses her arms and growls as she glares her way past the girl and into the house. Mercedes just cackles to herself, eventually leading the Cheerio to the stairs, and then up them to Rachel's room, right in time to see the girl walking out of the adjoining bathroom in ripped jeans and a white tank top, towelling her hair with a bite at her bottom lip.

"Oh. Yo. What brings you to my humble abode, Santana?" she asks cheerily from the doorway, still going at her hair with the towel. Evidently enough, the girl's just showered, and Santana stares at her for a good minute or so before tearing her gaze away to examine the room. Mercedes pulls out her phone, lips moving along silently to the music blaring from the laptop on the desk while she takes a seat on the bed and starts texting. Santana just looks around the room, passing off her awkwardness instead with a critical eye and taking in the yellow walls, the playbills, the band and broadway posters, the normal teenager stuff (apart from those six presumably stolen street signs pinned up on the back of the door - she doesn't think they're quite what one would call _normal_).

"I expected more pink," she says lightly, wondering exactly how she's going to answer the original question.

"Seems to be the general assumption," Rachel replies, off-handed, not at all swayed or struck off-centre by the words. "You will probably be further pleased by the fact that my wardrobe doesn't consist mainly of argyle. Why are you here again?"

Santana sniffs.

There reigns silence (music from the speakers aside, and what _is_ that anyway – some alternate punk-rock band that Mike might have mentioned once or twice, but doesn't Rachel only ever listen to _Broadway_?) until she mumbles to herself a little and Rachel blinks at her, dropping her towel down from her hair.

"What was that?"

Santana huffs, crossing her arms in front of her again and rolling her eyes. She was totally here for a reason – knew it before she bothered getting in her car and coming over, but maybe she didn't want to make it _easy_ for the other girl.

"I said 'I want in'," she repeats a little louder, all stiff and stoic, with that trademark undertone of 'bitch-_please'_. Mercedes lifts a finger on the bed, garnering Rachel's immediate attention without even looking up from her phone.

"She also said '_damn you and your god-like make-out skills, I can't believe I'm saying this, such a waste_'," Mercedes informs, practically in a monotone while Santana glares at the girl and Rachel smirks and moves to her closet.

"Traitor."

"Bitch."

"And don't I know it," Santana says proudly, finally managing a smile while she mentally pats herself on the back. She drops her bag at the foot of Rachel's bed and turns back to the girl in question – who isn't even facing her as she goes through the shirts in her closet. "I'm figuring you guys are going to Puck's party tonight?" she asks drolly, getting a simultaneous nod in return. Neither of them looks at her for it, nor do they look at each other, and she's both comforted and infuriated by the lack of attention. "I figured I'd – and I really never thought I'd say this to either of you, for, like, anything – _ever_ - help you out."

"I can drive," Mercedes says dully from the bed.

"I can pick my own outfit, thanks," Rachel says from the closet.

Neither of them is _dismissive_, exactly, she just gets the feeling that they don't really understand what she's saying. Understandable, really, since apart from her earlier mumbled 'I want in' she hasn't really explained herself. But she's _Santana Lopez_ for fuck's sake, she shouldn't _have_ to explain herself – people should just _know_.

"No, I mean _help you out_."

"If I wanted sexual favours, I would ask Puck," Rachel replies shortly, flinging a familiar hat from her closet to land on the bed beside Mercedes, who has now moved on to what looks like Algebra homework. The girl on the bed giggles, and Santana rolls her eyes, caught between amused and irritated. "No, wait – _you_ can't get me pregnant. I rescind that. If I ever want sex, you are _totally_ topping my list, babe."

Santana doesn't know why, but she flushes bright red at the statement. Maybe it's the 'babe' tagged ever so casually on the end, or the relaxed way she says it, or the provocation of thought it inspires, but it really kind of makes her rethink this golden opportunity she's giving up. Mercedes quirks an eyebrow over her algebra textbook, flicking her pen against the paper until the Latina glares at her.

"Shut it, Aretha," she grumbles, and she flips the girl off even though it's a little more light-hearted than usual and she smiles at the end. She frowns. That's not normal. People aren't supposed to make her smile so easily - let alone have her flustered and showing up willingly for a practical roll-call in their bedroom. "Okay, so I'm only going to say this properly _once_, and if you ignore me then that's your own fault."

"Okay. Shoot."

She narrows her gaze at the girl, still half in the closet, waiting until Rachel takes the cue to turn around and face her. And she does, in the ensuing silence, so Santana is faced with bright brown eyes, pieced, damp hair and an idle lip-bite on an otherwise stoic visage that has her rethinking this entire idea - because _god_, that's _hot_, and why is she doing this again? Oh, right.

"I know what you're doing to Q."

Rachel doesn't pale, or get defensive or anything – just glances at Mercedes and shrugs.

"Uh, okay," she replies shortly. "You _were_ kind of sitting there when it started. I'm not all that surprised. I'm pretty sure _Quinn_ knows what I'm doing to her. It's not exactly a secret."

"No – I mean – yes, I know that..." Santana grumbles, scolds herself for the lack of eloquence. Totally not badass. And then she brings her hand up to rub her forehead and work the words out in her mind again, because she had it all in there and figured out before she walked up to the house and started worrying about... "Wait, where are your dads?"

"Out buying a shotgun."

"_What_!"

"Relax," Rachel manages while Mercedes cracks up on the bed and Santana practically hyperventilates. "They're taking a second honeymoon. Their flight left two hours ago. Two weeks in Cabo – ergo, not home."

"So you're home _alone_ for two weeks?"

"I'm staying at Noah's," is the short reply, and Santana brings her thoroughly freaked self back to her normal unflappable bitch goddess mode. "You were saying about Quinn?"

"Oh, right. Look, I'm practically offering myself up on a silver platter here, and you –" She cuts off when Mercedes starts laughing again and Rachel quirks an eyebrow in such a good imitation of Puck it's kind of freaky. Santana practically growls. "Not like _that_, you pervs. That's gross." Rachel just gives her that look again, and why the _fuck_ does she keep getting all hot and bothered by it? "Not – not _gross_, I mean, if I thought you'd be interested, I would totally – because the other day, that was _really_ hot, and like – and, wait, what am I – _no,_ I _wouldn't_, ever, stop confusing me! Mercedes, shut the fuck up!"

But Mercedes keeps laughing and Santana huffs and crosses her arms again, and then finds herself collapsing back on the bed at Mercedes's feet with a pout and a grumble (and it's so damned unusual that it's unnerving). She never acts like this – not even around Brittany – but it's oddly comforting to her, feeling this free.

"So we've established so far that I am smoking hot and totally out for Quinn Fabray," Rachel says, and she's laughing lightly through her words with this small, bright smile on her face. Santana's just happy that the girl isn't thundering with laughter like Mercedes – who she snaps out at with her fist, and smacks in the leg out of irritation. "We already knew that. But please, do continue."

Santana just grumbles to herself for a moment, arm splayed, now, over her face, hiding her eyes.

"I want in," she says eventually, sitting up and staring straight across the room to Rachel. "This thing you're doing. Puckerman's in on it, and 'Cedes here helps make your Unholy Trio – which, seriously, that was mine and Fabray's first by the way, but I was willing to lend it out to you yesterday. Because watching Q get all hot and bothered is totally hilarious, even if it _does_ make me want to barf."

"Charming."

"Fuck you and your eloquence. Do you want my help or not?"

And this is where Santana gets her way. She's kind of disappointed, actually, because it doesn't seem like it's as big of a deal to them as she thought it would be. They just exchange a glance, and shrug, and then Rachel says "yeah, sure, okay" and turns back to her closet while Mercedes goes back to wasting her Saturday afternoon on Algebra homework and periodic texting. And really, she's Santana fucking Lopez, and she's gracing the Berry household with her presence on a Saturday, further offering her totalling bitchin' sex goddess powers for free – not in the way she normally does, either, because that costs at _least_ dinner – and, she wants to be _appreciated_, damn it!

"Hey San," Rachel says idly at one point, pulling a red plaid button-up shirt over her tank and tying it across her stomach at the bottom – which, though totally tomboyish, looks more hot on that girl than anything, and it's a testament to Santana's amazing willpower that her libido doesn't quite force her across the room to take the girl up against the wall already. What the girl says next tests her a little more, even while Mercedes cracks again on the bed. "You know how every girl masters spin the bottle in, what, fifth grade? Just letting you know, should the opportunity arise, I'm _totally_ going to use my superior bottle spinning skills on you."

So, maybe she will be appreciated after all.

"Rach, do you offer your lips as a reward for everyone, or is it only your 'special' friends?" Mercedes asks dryly, flipping a page in her textbook while Santana smirks to herself, strewn across the foot of the bed.

"Only the people with good technique and pretty faces," Rachel replies idly, searching through her closet for the right accessories and coming up with a rainbow bracelet (shit, she really was part of the rainbow parade, and apparently fucking proud) and a silver charm one – both of which she strapped to her left wrist. "And, well, some kind of attraction to me, I guess, also being a prerequisite. For instance, I would probably pay you off in candy and hook-ups with hot guys."

"...Has anyone ever told you how cool you are?"

And Rachel just laughs on her way out of the room, because both of the girls on the bed know how absolutely ironic it is. Until this last week, the depths of Rachel Berry's awesomeness have been hidden behind fake smiles, forced abrasiveness, and however many layers of argyle. Like the rest of the world – bar Puck, who is quite evidently one very lucky man, and has been for quite some time – both Mercedes and Santana have ruled the girl as an annoying, tasteless social pariah.

Rachel returns to the room some five minutes later with snacks, prods Mercedes to go get ready and sits on the bed with Santana while they wait. They talk, and laugh, and make bad jokes through thinly-veiled innuendo, and talk about who, at school, looks even marginally decent, and Santana can't help but wonder – why is this the first time this has happened? Why hasn't she seen _this_ girl before?

Because this _being friends_ thing with Rachel Berry? It's pretty awesome.

She gets shoved – and really, there's nothing graceful or gentle about it, Rachel _shoves_ her – off the bed next, told to go get changed and "hurry it up, we have a scene to crash". She does as she's told, picking up her bag from the end of the bed and disappearing into Rachel's bathroom, but not without grumbling under her breath and rubbing her backside from crashing to the floor. When she emerges Mercedes is doing her make up in the mirror in the corner and Rachel has a duffel bag on her bed, and Santana figures that the girl is packing for her stay at Puck's.

"Looking good, San," Rachel comments simply, zipping up the duffel loudly and picking up her hat – the one from their funk number, and her Puck impression, and most notably in Santana's opinion, their totally _amazing_ heavy-petting session in the choir room - from the bed to spin it on her finger. "Should probably let you know that we who are running Operation Fabgay are doing somewhat of a _supply_ _run_ tomorrow – post hangover, of course. You can come if you'd like."

"Operation _Fabgay_? Puck named it didn't he? That's great," Santana replies, laughing a little. There _is_ a certain comic genius to the title, she must admit, and she's quite proud of her fellow badass for spawning the title. "You mean shopping, right? I'm there."

"Awesome," Mercedes piped up with a grin, finishing up with her makeup and turning to look at them. "Consider it your initiation to our mastermind ranks. Kurt will be _thrilled_. In the meantime – phase..."

There's a fractional silence and a strange look crosses the girl's face. Rachel yawns beside the bed before helping her out.

"Well, it isn't phase two," she says, almost absentmindedly. "And the Phase _Four_ party idea that Puck threw around involved small, tight dresses and – questionably – duct tape. So, this is more like, Phase One-point-six-three or something."

Mercedes just nods an acceptance, while Santana questions exactly what they'll be buying at the shops tomorrow – because _duct tape_, seriously? – and Rachel hauls up her bag from the bed.

"Are we ready to go?"she asks, and gives a mock-salute at their positive responses. "Alrighty then. Troops, fall in. Operation Fabgay: Phase One-point-six-three is underway."

She marches out of the room like a proper trooper, and Santana shakes her head and follows, _almost_ smiling to herself because she could get used to this. Mercedes follows her out, flicking off the lights behind her. They leave the Berry house dark and vacant.

Santana doesn't know how it even happened, but the next thing she's properly aware of is gaining Rachel's run-off attention via party-entrance (and they're _right_ on time because it's in full swing). They split for a second – Rachel flits off upstairs before she can say anything, presumably to dump her things in Puck's room or something. But she's gone for less than a minute, and she's back in time to lead Mercedes and Santana into the living room. She disappears again, only to reappear from the pulsing crowd with two bottles of some fluorescent-but-rather-tasty-looking drink, both of which she hands to the girls, and a black can for herself that Santana can only assume to be a rum or whiskey mixer – Puck proves her right when he turns up on her left with a matching can, label showing.

"Rach, babe, which stereotype are you going for here?" is his chosen greeting. He's met with a smirk and two astonished stares. "_Plaid_? Really?"

"I live in a hick town, I'm fairly certain I'm entitled to wearing it," the short brunette retorts, spinning her hat idly on her finger and gulping back her can like a pro. "Plus, I can totally _rock_ plaid. Why? Were you mistaking it for a mark of lesbianism? Do I strike you as a butch femme?"

"You did when we went cow tipping and you punched that farmer dude in the face."

"It was dark and he jumped out at me from the shadows, okay?"

"_What?_"

Two sets of eyes snap to Santana, who stares at the both of them with astonishment (which Mercedes reflects) and a somewhat scandalised demeanour (which Mercedes doesn't). The Latina furrows her brow and kicks back her drink unhappily before poking Rachel in the chest.

"Cow tipping? Punching guys in the face? What's next – _grand theft auto_?"

"It was only that _one_ time," both of the Jews tell her, the same exasperated tone in place as they exchange glances. They share this following innate satisfaction about it, apparently, as they clap hands and bump their knuckles – and _shit_, it really _is_ like a bromance.

"It was a black '64 Chevy Impala," Rachel tells them reverently, eyes glazing over at the memory, and Mercedes drops her jaw a little. "Best drive of my life."

"Pity we had to ditch it on the interstate," Puck muses, and he's sharing that nostalgic look. "That was a nice day. And a _very_ nice car. Though hitching our way back home was an _adventure_."

"Ted was pretty cool for a truck driver," Rachel protests slightly. Puck just glares at her.

"That's because, for once, it wasn't _your_ pants he wanted into," the boy practically growled. "The guy had a preference for _stick-shift_, if you catch my drift. And then you made me sit in the middle! Most fucking uncomfortable ride of my _life_!"

"Better than getting hooked by the cops for car theft," is Rachel's simple, shrugging reply, but she has this small smirk on her face at the memory that makes Santana think that maybe she was aware of Puck's discomfort the entire time.

"Berry," Santana grumbles, eyes narrowing at the short girl as she twirls her hat on her finger and quirks an eyebrow at her. "Why didn't you ever tell me you're such a badass? I'm insulted. Seriously." She turns a glare to Puck and hits him on the shoulder. "And you! You never even mentioned it! Fucker! What were you thinking, keeping this girl to yourself!"

Puck blinks at her and rubs his arm where she hit him. "Uh... I was thinking that I was _keeping_ her to myself?" is his simple, dry reply. "Rach is my best friend that I occasionally make out with. And now you want her to be your best friend that you occasionally make out with. Which would generally mean that half of the time she could be hanging out with me in her best friendliness would be spent hanging out with you instead, and half of those kisses would be going your way."

"Eloquent," Rachel mumbles a little distastefully while Mercedes stares at her, still not speaking. "I _really_ admire that about you, Noah." Santana glares at the both of them for a moment, earning a low sigh. "Rest assured, Santana, next time we decide to steal a car you can sit shotgun."

And that bright, toothy grin that Santana replies with? That's _totally_ not out of character or weird or anything at all. She's just really, really glad to have a new badass friend and a promise of a part in their future schemes.

"Quinn and Brittany at your eight o'clock," Mercedes interrupts them with, and Rachel doesn't even turn to look before crushing her hat down over her long, wavy locks, rim slightly off-centre. "Get with the teasing, home girl."

And Santana watches as Rachel touches the brim of her hat in a small salute, winks once, and turns on the spot to slide through the crowd to the two girls occupying Puck's couch. She follows after the short brunette – because all hell to her if she's not really _in_ on this, and she's actually really curious about how Rachel's going to go about teasing the blonde head cheerleader this evening – but she doesn't get away before hearing Puck's muttered, "I wonder if she'd mind me switching up her hat – she's wearing plaid and jeans, and all she needs is a ten-gallon to make her look like a _cowgirl_."

When she makes it over to the couch Rachel has plonked herself deliberately between the two blondes with her arms stretched lazily across the back of the couch on both sides. Brittany is giggling, leaning happily into the girl's side – and it's _Brittany_, who knows Rachel a lot better than Santana originally thought and is obviously totally comfortable with the position, so therefore not surprising. Quinn's a harder case to crack – biting her lip, sitting a little stiffly in her seat, eyes trained pointedly at the ground – and she looks half like she wants to get up and walk away and half like she wants to sink back and relax. Santana makes her mind up pretty quickly, moving towards Quinn's end of the couch rather than Brittany's and taking a seat of her own on the arm of it, pushing the blonde beside her just a little closer to Rachel with the action. Said brunette just winks at her over Quinn's head, withdrawing her arm so she can drink but replacing it just as fluidly.

"Q, were you aware that our resident diva moonlights as a badass?" the Latina asks, and she's actually genuinely curious about this. Puck and Rachel are obviously practical BFFs (which would make her gag if they were the mani/pedi kind and not the 'we steal cars and party' kind), and really, having lived in Puck's house for a number of months Quinn should probably know. Except the blonde just gives her a flat, disbelieving look while Rachel smirks behind her, and Santana figures that no, apparently she had _no_ idea.

"Why would I?"

"You _lived_ in this house," Santana says. "How could you _not_ have noticed this Puckleberry bromance going on?"

"We're very covert," Rachel tells her before Quinn can say anything. "Seriously. _Years_ perfecting the art. It included slushy facials and everything. It's useful though. You know that ATM scheme? I almost got hit out on that."

"_You_ helped him try to steal the ATM?" Santana grumbles flatly, staring with narrowed eyes at her over Quinn's head while the blonde whips around to stare at her as well. Rachel just shrugs. "Why the fuck did you do it? Fucking stupid idea, really."

"It was actually _really_ well planned, thank you very much," the short girl replies, quirking a brow, tipping her hat, and taking a gulp of her drink. "We just didn't account for that old lady down the road being awake to call the cops on us. And, well, apparently the local police force has a _really_ fast reaction time. Noah took the fall, and when they started looking for the mysterious second perpetrator no one gave two shits about me, because so far as the rest of the world's concerned I'm practically saintly, and me and Puck don't actually get along." She frowned. "His mother might not agree. I killed her mailbox once."

"What _ever_ possessed you to _steal_ an ATM though?" Quinn manages, and Santana can't see her face but she's guessing she's a little red with that whole confusion-curiosity-frustration-disbelief-exasperation cocktail that Santana's had stewing for days.

"I was strapped for cash, babe," Rachel replies lowly, sounding so much like Puck it's ridiculous. The following bright grin from the girl kind of counters it, though, because _that_ is so classic Rachel Berry that it's ridiculous. "We'd crashed this Carmel party a few days before, and gotten drunk, and Puck crashed my car into about four mailboxes and a security fence on the way back. There's a possibility we narrowly missed a small child. I could be wrong." Santana just blinks at her, then laughs – light, and genuine, because she's picking out Rachel's jokes now, and _damn_, she's pretty funny. Especially with her hand gestures – simulating, she guesses, Puck's driving prowess. "Basically, after our DWI incident we needed to fix my car, preferably before my dads got back from their conference, and my financial insecurity wasn't cohesive to that plan."

"So you tried to _steal_ an _ATM_?"

"Safer than bank-robbing," the girl replies, and Santana can tell she's totally serious. "Besides, I was going to pay it back." And only Rachel Berry could say that and mean it. Santana just shakes her head with a smile. "Are you doubting my badassness?"

"Rachel, did Puck teach you naughty things again?" Brittany asks lightly from Rachel's other side, probably only picking up on Rachel's severely Puck-like statement and relating it to a memory Santana knows not. Rachel just smiles wickedly, turning to run a fingertip lightly around the tall blonde's ear and down her neck, brushing a loose strand of hair away. Brittany smiles happily at the attention. "No. That's not new. Okay. Can we make out?"

Santana's jaw drops.

"Please," the Latina says, shifting a little on the arm of the chair and ignoring Quinn's jerky demeanour beside her, even though she doesn't miss the barely-there squeak the girl lets out. It's satisfying, really, to know that this is totally working. But does that mean Brittany's in on it too? "Please dear _god_, make out with her, Rachel. That's got to be the _hottest_ thing I've ever heard of."

Rachel just shakes her head, smile stuck between sweet and devilish.

"Britt, I don't think Artie would be too happy with me if I did," the girl says, and Santana's disappointment at missing out on that show is kind of countered by her admiration of Rachel's kindness. Brittany has a habit of not really understanding the full consequences of her actions, and it's nice that Rachel is looking out for her that way, even if it means she won't be having a hot make-out session with the girl. Brittany looks a little disappointed, but that goes away quickly enough. "Of course, if there's a little spin the bottle later on and you twist it _just_ right, then I'm pretty sure we can get away with it."

Santana growls a little and Brittany lights up with a little smile while Quinn goes stiff in her seat, crossing her arms with a huff.

"Looking a little low there, Q," Santana tells her, and she doesn't hide the amusement in her voice in the slightest. Quinn jerks her head around to fix the Latina with a glare while Rachel turns to the both of them with blinking wide eyes. It quickly turns into a smirk.

"I'm sorry, Quinn, would you like a kiss too?" she asks, and she doesn't sound half as sleazy as Puck would in the same situation. Santana has to praise her for her totally casual air about the entire situation. And she kind of wonders, too, how many times Rachel's done something like this – seduced someone, played them like this, and without even _acting_. This _is_ Rachel, and she's not faking this side of her personality that Santana finds _totally_ alluring.

She also has the minor, barely there concern about how Rachel is totally _not_ dealing with her domestic-violence-turned-near-drowning experience last Saturday. It's only been a week, after all – surely not enough time to deal with something like that. This seems like more of a distraction than anything.

A useful, amusing, totally hot distraction.

"No thanks," is Quinn's distasteful, stiff reply.

"Oh. Okay. Come dance, Britt," Rachel says lightly, pushing up quickly from the couch and pulling the smiling blonde with her. Quinn stares at the empty spot beside her, wide-eyed while Santana quickly moves past her to fill the vacated area. Clearly, Quinn was expecting more resistance or something because she blinks a few times before looking out to the 'dance floor'. Santana just leans back, resting her head on the arm of the chair and her legs on her friend's lap, torn between studying the blonde's clearly unbalanced demeanour and her other best friend dancing with Rachel out amidst the other warm bodies.

"Did she seriously just blow me off?"

"I'm pretty sure that if she _blew you off_, Q, you would be ten miles into happy land by now," Santana replies dryly, watching with some innate satisfaction as the girl's face flushes a bright red. This tag-teaming thing that she's starting with Rachel is freaking brilliant.

"Shouldn't she be pushing the point, though?" Quinn asks, glancing with a quick glare at the Latina and lifting a finger accusingly. "Turn _that_ dirty and you're running suicides all practice on Monday." When Santana just stares at her, she lowers her hand. "Isn't she supposed to be, like, trying tirelessly to get in my pants."

"Get you out of them, more like," Santana replies idly. "Telling you from experience, Q, sex is a lot more fun _without_ clothes on." At her friend's glare she just shrugs, rolling her eyes. "She asked you to make out, you said no, she decided to go have some sexy, clothes-on fun with B. _I'm_ not complaining. I'm not sure _why_ you said no, though. That girl's kisses are like a fucking double rainbow."

"Double rainbow?"

"An experience equal to an _orgasm_," Santana drawls out with a nod, and the way she says it makes it sound more textbook than vulgar. Quinn just glares at her.

"You're crude."

"You're a prude, so sue me."

With a shrug – and really, there's only so much of Quinn's attitude she can deal with in a day even if watching the girl go gay for Rachel Berry is perpetually satisfying – Santana turns her gaze out to the mass of moving bodies. Most specifically, she turns to stare at Rachel and Brittany. And _wow_, that is a show she's glad she's not missing. The two evidently female figures flush against each other, hips rolling, bodies pumping along with the pulse of the bass from the stereo.

"_Damn_..." Santana mumbles, settling back against the couch a little more and watching with rapt attention as the two girls dance. She's appreciative of this viewing – how could she not be?

"I thought they went to dance classes together," Quinn says, and she's talking in a bit of a rush, her tone a little more breathy than normal. Santana doesn't even look at her to see the flush of the girl's cheeks or her nails digging heavily into the couch material. She doesn't see Mercedes cackling across the room, or Puck beside her stuck between laughing at Quinn's reaction and drooling at the two girls on the dance floor. Rather, Santana gets comfortable and bites her lip and stares at Rachel and Brittany as they do that thing – that sexy, fluid dancing thing that isn't just mindless grinding, either, because there are actually techniques and _moves_ in there amidst the contact – with their naive selves, and they probably don't even realise just how _hot_ that is. "What the hell dance class did they enrol in?"

"I need another drink," Santana grunts out, pushing herself rather abruptly up from her chair, because Brittany has this dazed, happy smile on her face and Rachel has this comfortable smirk, and Santana lost track of the blonde's hands, and suddenly her throat is completely dry. She ignores Quinn's wide-eyed, pleading expression as she walks away, shoving her way through the crowd to the kitchen. The girl can stew in her repressed, lusty state alone for a while.

Santana needs to kick back her hormones with alcohol. Or release them. She's not sure yet.

She escapes from the pulsing bodies into the cool of the kitchen, hardly inhabited, and skulks her way over to the fridge. She considers another of those tasty fluorescent drinks Rachel handed her earlier, and then she decides against it, picking up a black can instead. She'll join the ranks of badasses, with their drinks with slightly higher alcohol-content and harder liquor. Lord knows she'll need it to get through tonight.

"Drooling over Berry, babe?" comes Puck's voice from behind her, and Santana turns to face him with a stiff jaw. "It happens to the best of us. I always told her not to hide that hot bod beneath those bad clothes."

"Brittany knew."

"Brittany knows a lot of things, San, you know that," Puck tells her simply, taking a long pull from his own black can, separate from the party. "They've been dancing together for years. This one they're doing now is new, but..." He glances out the doorway behind him, his expression more affectionate than sleazy, surprisingly enough. "You'd be surprised. They're actually pretty close when Britt's not working on the Bitch Brigade and Rach isn't wearing argyle. They look out for each other – when other people aren't looking." It gets a hint of a smile from the both of them, the way he treats Rachel's friendships like it's a spy-op. "Britt never really got it – why we did this hiding thing. Neither did I. But Rach likes it – this distinction between what she's seen as and what she is. And it makes her feel safe. No one can really touch her if they don't know her."

"So I'm _getting to know_ Rachel Berry," Santana says a little dryly, but not unkindly. "Apocalypse, right?"

"Totally," Puck laughs. "Quinn hasn't taken her eyes off Rachel's ass since she started dancing."

"Girl _does_ have a nice ass," Santana replies simply, shrugging and moving to the door. She gains a momentarily unobstructed view of those two dancing girls again, and consequently takes another pull from her can, wetting her dry throat. "I want in on that. I am going to _get_ in on that."

"Now San," the footballer says, grabbing her arm before she can properly get away from him. "Don't do that, all hasty-like. Just watch. Don't mess up a beautiful thing."

She resigns herself, even if watching the two girls has her a little hot beneath the collar and shifting on the spot. But the song isn't even over before she has to nudge Puck beside her, pointing through a gap in the crowd with a low grumble. She can see Quinn for a moment, still on the couch across the room, and she's a little surprised that she's noticed this at all with that gorgeous event taking up the dance floor.

"Looks like someone else is messing this up for us."

"Motherfucker!" Puck exclaims simply, grabbing her hand and dragging her through to where Rachel and Brittany are and tapping the two girls on their shoulders to get their attention. They don't slide apart, both to Santana's chagrin and satisfaction – Brittany slides her arms comfortably around Rachel's waist in a slightly-more-than-friendly manner (but this is Brittany, overtly tactile and therefore uninhibited by outward perception, and shit she's starting to sound like Rachel), dropping her chin on the short brunette's shoulder and letting the girl sink back into her.

"What's up?" Rachel asks, just the right amount of suspicion in her tone, pulling her hat off and lazily fanning herself with it. Puck just jerks his head towards the couch, but Brittany's the only one to look over. The blonde frowns.

"Are Sam and Quinn dating again?" she asks dazedly, pouting a little at her dance being interrupted. Rachel pats her idly on the arm glued comfortably around her stomach, and Santana stares at the two girls unabashedly. They're much more interesting than Quinn's current company.

"I hope you realise that dance is going to be the main event of my fantasies for the foreseeable future," she grumbles, earning a small smirk from Rachel and a perpetually giddy smile from the blonde.

"Oh? What am I looking at, Noah?" Rachel asks, pointedly ignoring the Latina and talking to Puck instead. He takes a glance and frowns.

"At the moment? Goofy smile, bashful foot-tapping, is that – oh, _yes_, that's _sweet-talking_ going on," he commentates quickly, giving Mercedes a small smile as she joins them, obviously figuring out the point of this meet.

"She interested?"

"I hate to say it, but she looks a _lot_ more than apathetic."

Rachel stares at him for a couple of minutes, and Puck stares back. Mercedes taps her foot a little while Brittany nuzzles happily into the short girl's neck. Santana just purses her lips, crossing her arms and wondering what the girl's thinking. Knowing Rachel, she probably has ideas, plans, and scenarios running through her mind like water while she pans for gold. They wait, wondering whether Rachel will throw in the towel now that Sam Evans has made his way back on the scene with suspicious and irritating timing – drop it and forget all about this plot, forget about seducing Quinn Fabray. A part of Santana hopes that this Rachel that no one ever got to know has the same value of dedication, and _stubbornness_, that the Rachel they _thought_ they knew did. A few minutes pass, and then the girl gives a devilish smirk, twirling her cap in her hands.

"It seems we have another player," is all she says, slipping her hat back on. And then, those words that always seem to start something. "Challenge _accepted_."

**

* * *

**

_Shake down on a Saturday -  
Sit back, gotta catch my breath  
'Cause every time I see her  
I know she's gonna take it back somehow.  
Tattoos and a switchblade attitude,  
Snakebite heart with a bubblegum smile -  
Sex in stereo, don't turn the radio dial._

**

* * *

**

_Reviews and... yeah. You know how I roll._


	6. Kiss With A Fist

_Disclaimer: whatever. I'm broke and a loser. 'Nuff said._

_Update. Bam._

* * *

**The radio sounds like a hangover.**

That's a lie. In reality, it's actually Santana's loud groaning over the top of the radio that sounds like a hangover. The Latina is slumped unhappily in the passenger's seat, forehead pressed against the icy window of the car and grumbling to herself while Rachel drives them towards the mall. Mercedes and Brittany are both idle and silent in the back seat, listening to the hum of the radio – or trying to, anyway, because Santana keeps moaning over the top of it and shifting in her seat.

"Santana," Rachel starts a little stiffly, glancing over with the slightest concern. "Either stop it, or get out."

"But I want to _sleep_," the girl mumbles back, earning an eye roll from across the center console and a giggle from the back seat. Rachel reaches over to poke the cheerleader in the ear, and she jerks upright in her seat, squinting a glare across to the driver. Rachel just studiously ignores her, eyes going back to the road.

"Should've thought about that when I woke you up this morning and asked if you still wanted to come," the singer says simply. "From memory, _you're_ the one that bolted upright in bed and started going through my bags and violating my personal boundaries in an effort to find me something 'suitable' to wear to the mall. And you, hands _down,_ wouldn't feel so horrible right now if you'd simply accepted my offer of ibuprofen and a glass of water with a gracious smile, rather than sneering and telling me to – and I quote – 'man the fuck up, because that shit is useless'." Santana just glares while Mercedes laughs quietly behind them and Brittany giggles at Rachel's spot on impression. "Stop groaning over the radio and I'll buy you a great big cup of _coffee_ when we get there."

There's a contemplative silence for a moment, whereupon Rachel relaxes and finally listens to one of those rock songs Puck always tells her about emitting from the stereo speakers. But then Santana speaks again, and there's this half-sigh half-smirk thing that crosses the singer's face, because really, she should have known that coffee wouldn't be compensation enough.

"...Can we make out?"

"Didn't you get enough of that last night?" Rachel just asks her, teasing a little. Glancing at Santana, she sees the girl's eyes glaze over, and Brittany giggles in the back again while they stop at a red light and Santana licks her lips idly. There had been kissing involved at the party – _before_ Santana had gotten completely wasted and passed out in Puck's room, but _after_ she'd added the Rachel/Brittany dance combo to her 'spank bank' – Noah's words, not hers. It was a game of spin the bottle that Rachel and Puck were all for, and Quinn had avoided like the plague – instead standing in the corner and glowering when Santana kissed Rachel, when Brittany did, and when Puck did too – oddly respectful about it, though he'd seemed to be.

"You failed to follow it up with sex, so no," Santana replies shortly, earning a quirked eyebrow and a small smirk.

"If you're hanging out for _that_," Rachel tells her, ignoring the sound of Mercedes's uproarious laughter behind them, "you will be waiting a _very_ long time. Ask Puck. He'll tell you _all_ about it."

"She's not lying," Brittany calls from the back seat, leaning forward until she can wrap her arms properly around the driver's seat and Rachel's shoulder, looking over at Santana while the girl pouts. "Rachel's absent."

"Abstinent , Britt," Rachel corrects idly, eyes focussed on the road while Santana stares at her.

"Right. _That_. Abstinent," Brittany repeats. "Like, she doesn't have sex. Or was it _take_ sex?" The questioning tone is accompanied by the blonde leaning a little further to look at Rachel around the headrest.

"I'm a giver," Rachel replies nonchalantly, clearly more focussed on the road than the conversation. Santana just stares, wide-eyed. "On occasion. When properly in a relationship. And sometimes when I'm really drunk. Not against engaging in sexual practices, so long as I am not on the receiving end."

"_So_ didn't need to know that," Mercedes calls from the back seat, sounding slightly traumatised, but Rachel just laughs, knowing she's bunging it on a little.

"Probably not," Rachel replies off-handedly. "Lord knows you're enjoying watching San here squirm, though."

"Preach," Mercedes replies, and Brittany chirps it out too, humming along to the radio when they finally pull into the parking lot at the mall. It's relatively early, and Rachel finds them a park quickly and pretty close to the building. They pile out of the car while Puck pulls his truck up beside them. He jumps out, slamming his door and grumbling all the while about "_freaking Vanity Fair_" while Kurt and Blaine hop out too – oblivious and happy – but Puck's still feeling some of his hangover, and it's too early, and Rachel gives him a sympathetic smile and links her arm with his once he's locked the truck, leading the rest of the group to the mall.

Kurt _almost_ complains when they don't go straight for the clothing stores but then he realises that even Brittany has a shady, dark ring around her eyes and a slight slump to her posture, and Rachel smiles thankfully when he shuts his mouth around the words. Puck and Santana aren't the only ones suffering post-party, they're just the worst. So he and Blaine follow the others to the food court, where they pile up on coffee and water and greasy breakfast foods that make him wrinkle his nose a little, but will totally help with heavy heads and upset stomachs. They eat slowly and mostly in silence, and he and Blaine watch curiously, nursing coffees of their own and wondering exactly what they missed out on overnight, until Santana promptly faceplants on the table, one hand wrapped around her coffee cup.

"Okay," Kurt hazards lightly, earning Brittany's ever-dazed stare and the slightly tired (but quickly being replaced with caffeine buzz energy) gaze of Rachel. "So what did we miss last night, exactly?"

"Babes," Santana grumbles out, not even bothering to look up.

"Booze," Puck grunts, eyeing his bacon and egg roll with some trepidation.

"Lots of making out," Brittany replies airily, _probably_ remembering the event.

Kurt stares for a moment, exchanging a glance with Blaine and quirking his brow. The things they've described aren't particularly out of the ordinary – although Santana's presence at their _Operation: Fabgay _supply run certainly is. Or was, when they arrived at Puck's an hour ago and found out she'd been invited – but Kurt had quickly realised that Santana was totally in this, and accepted it just as promptly.

"Operation related?" he clarifies curiously, noting the slightly put out expression on everyone's face that he thinks may very well not be due to hangover.

"Quinn likes Rachel's ass," Brittany says off-handedly. Rachel doesn't react, just starts circling the top of her coffee cup with a single finger, resting her chin in the palm of her other hand.

"Berry has _game_," Santana adds, a slightly awed, nostalgic tone in her voice, head turning to the side slightly on the table.

"Sam wants to get back with Quinn," Mercedes informs helpfully, earning a thankful glance from Kurt before he glares at everyone else.

"And what did we learn last night, folks?" Blaine asks the lot of them, easy and light and conversational, and apparently all too cheerful for the assembled team, and yet not at all irritated by their lack of helpfulness or good information. There's a collective groan.

"Never accept drinks from Puck," Mercedes grumbles, moving to lay her head on Kurt's shoulder and ignoring the squinty gaze that _may_ have been intended as a glare that the mohawked boy sends her way. Kurt turns his head with a slightly disapproving expression to her, but doesn't push her away – he mightn't want her laying on him, but he's apparently sympathetic to her post-alcohol plight.

"If given the chance, punch Sam Evans in the face," Puck intones dryly, poking at his sandwich slowly but not yet around to eating it.

"Puck needs more dance tracks," Brittany tells them all idly, earning the barest glare from the boy in question. The blonde shrugs.

"Next party, bring a chapstick," Rachel says in a faint tone, but in a way that lets everyone know it's already on her to-do list.

"Quinn Fabray is an _idiot_," Santana grumbles, lifting her head from the table surface the tiniest amount just so she can crash it back down again with a quiet thud. She repeats the action twice more, but no one really reacts to the dull thuds.

Blaine and Kurt exchange astonished glances, and look back at their friends, trying valiantly and consequently failing to piece together the previous evening. "O_kay_," Kurt manages eventually, earning a dull stare from Rachel, who is apparently finished nursing her hangover with and junk food and to the point of ignoring the dull ache in her head in preference for her growing caffeine buzz. "Rachel, sweetie, you're going to come clothes shopping with me and tell me absolutely everything that I missed out on last night – next time there's a party, I think I'm going to have to supervise - while Blaine and Puck go to get their –" he cuts himself off with a slightly disturbed expression, "– _practical_ gear."

Rachel's matching expression leaves little doubt that she knows what he's talking about. During their brainstorming session the other day, Puck and Blaine had come up with a number of items that they'd hardly bothered to showcase, and yet informed were necessary. Primarily on this list – walkie talkies, duct tape, and if she remembers correctly, lime flavoured jelly. The walkie talkies are for novelty, she's pretty sure. Of what she remembers of the list, it's the duct tape that concerns her. There's probably something far more concerning than that on there, of course – they only saw a _third_ of it.

But Puck will be Puck, and Blaine will be Blaine, and Kurt and Rachel decided to just let them do whatever.

Of course, then Puck jumps to his feet, ignoring his hangover with a sudden bout of inherent _glee_, and Blaine gets up quickly so they can leave the table, the same devious excitement in his eyes, and Rachel worries for a moment about exactly what the two boys have planned. Mercedes narrows her eyes after the two, pauses for a moment, and sighs, pushing herself up from the table to follow after them with a drawn out, resigned, "don't worry, I'll supervise."

And with a shared dubious expression and a great deal of resignation, both Kurt and Rachel stand from the table – one clasping her coffee cup and the other clapping his hands excitedly – and walk back towards some of Kurt's favourite stores. Brittany floats off after them, humming to herself, and Santana takes a second before scrambling after them.

"Hey – _hey_! Wait up! Are you sticking her in skimpy clothes? I need to see this!"

/-\

"Okay, I'm curious."

"So am I," Rachel replies idly, shoving three books into her locker and rifling around for her Glee-specific binder while Santana leans easily on one of the lockers beside her, glaring at random passersby with her patented HBIC look when they stare at her a little too long. It's not that big of a deal, her hanging out with Rachel. Or it shouldn't be. They were practically attached at the hip at the party on Saturday – and at the lips, at one point – and they have been for the last three school days, too. "I mean, surely there's a use for duct tape that _isn't_ borderline criminal activity, and I'm just not thinking of it. Even though I have been trying to think of it for three days. It's the wire-cutters that concern me. Why do they _need_ wire-cutters? And a _shovel_?"

"Uh, no, that's not what I'm curious about," Santana tells her shortly – although, now that it's been mentioned again she _is_ more than a little curious about the purpose of half of the shit from the boys' list three days ago. Rachel pauses, turning to her with wide, curious eyes, strands of hair hanging messily around her face, courtesy of her loose ponytail – and yeah, Quinn Fabray must be the stupidest person on earth, because that's a pretty face and a gorgeous body and _amazing_ lips right there, and she doesn't know why the super-repressed head cheerleader isn't just _up on that_ already.

Rachel can tell she's thinking that by the slight blow of her pupils and the tiny shift in posture, and she smirks, hitting Santana lightly on the shoulder and turning back to finish up with her locker.

"What are you curious about, San?" she prompts simply, earning a short laugh and an arm linked with hers once she's closed her locker and turned to walk down the hall.

"Operation: Fabgay," is the short reply. "I mean, on Saturday night you said that it was game on, right? And then we went shopping on Sunday, and the boys went and prepared for war, or torture, or whatever it is that they're planning. But you didn't pull any moves on Saturday night after you offered to kiss her, and you've hardly even looked in her direction for the last three days."

"You're underrating my seduction skills," Rachel tells her dryly, shrugging a little and leading her towards the choir room. "_I_ might not be looking at Quinn, but _she_ can't take her eyes off of me. Kind of like how Azimio has taken to sitting beside me in every class we share together in an attempt to stare at my boobs. And Kelsey Graham on the Cheerios propositioned me shortly after our spin the bottle round on Saturday. Keeps giving me bedroom eyes in calculus, too. I didn't even know she was _in_ that class."

"Can't blame her, really. That _was_ one hot game of spin the bottle," Santana grumbles, lips pursing a little in memory of soft fingers pushing back her hair, lips slanting on lips, parting, tongues coaxing, sliding, moaning softly, _whimpering_ low in the back of her throat, her own fingers twisting tightly into plaid material, pulling closer – closer, _closer_ – not being close _enough_. She groans slightly, realising that a light blush has risen on her cheeks at the same time as Rachel elbows her gently, smirking, in the side.

"Which kind of _curiosity_ were we talking about?" the shorter girl teases, earning an elbow to her own side and a grumble. "San, this is all part of the plan. We're still rocking phase one."

"Endless teasing?"

"Mmhmm," is Rachel's wordless reply, and she adds a little bit of extra sway to her hips when they walk past Azimio and his girlfriend in the hall. There's the resounding sound of a slap that follows them, and neither girl bothers to survey the damage caused by Azimio's straying eyes. "She'll get anxious. She knows this game we're playing. She's expecting me to dog her footsteps or something – which, from my experiences with Jacob and Finn, is more irritating than anything else. So I won't go out of my way, she'll get antsy, she'll wonder – if I'm lucky, all this time I'm spending with you will factor in a jealousy quotient. And she won't want to make this easy on Sam – she'll want him to _compete_ for her affections, because, let's face it, Quinn wants someone she deems _deserving_."

Santana nods along to the words, quickly identifying with them. Rachel's definitely not wrong.

"So when do you make this competition get _active_?" she asks warily, ever-curious about the short girl's plan of attack. There's a certain, scheming method to her madness that Santana doesn't understand (wants to), but respects. The smile she receives is nothing less that knee-weakening and purely devilish.

"Why, when she _asks_ me to, of course," Rachel tells her with complete confidence, and Santana grumbles at the deviousness and that smooth assuredness that the girl beside her practically oozes.

"Are you sure I can't entice you to join me in the janitor's closet?"

That smirk is all the answer she needs, but Rachel shakes her head and giggles anyway.

"Oh, you know that you can't," she says, and there's a slightly sympathetic tone to her voice. They've been over this – though Santana was highly inebriated and Rachel herself was toeing the line between pleasantly buzzed and wasted at the time. "Maybe if I wasn't trying to seduce your best friend, and you weren't entirely in love with Brittany." In a way, Santana is as thankful as she is disappointed. Rachel nudges her in the side with her elbow before she can get too introspective, though. "You know, I'm pretty sure that if I'm capable of turning uber-hetero, Christ Crusader, Celibacy club captain Fabray gay, then you can win Britt back."

Santana smiles to herself the slightest amount, replying with the slightest hip-check to the girl whose arm she is still linked to.

"Maybe," is all she says, but it's enough for Rachel. It means Santana will think about it – and if Santana thinks about it, she'll probably convince herself it needs to be done, and then she may or may not ask for help, but she'll do it either way. And then everybody will live happily ever after and skip off into the sunset to make daisy chains and sing songs about sunshine and happiness and drink beer until the world runs out – except Finn, who can rot and die in a hole like the lying, cheating, image-obsessed scum of the earth that his freakishly huge, girl-bashing self is.

And, okay, so maybe she's still a _little_ pissed about the whole _infidelity-and-stitches_ combo.

Ironically enough, the second that she takes to dwell on the fact is the same second she sees him across the hall. She can't help it – this reaction she has. It's automatic. She does it without thinking, and she doesn't know how to stop it. She hesitates – falters, just for a second. Every muscles tenses up and her blood starts pumping faster, and she feels light-headed and her stomach flutters – like wasps stinging and burning and turning her out, not like butterflies, not at _all_. The ache in her chest isn't heartbreak – it's her lungs filling again, throat constricting, breath shortening until it's not coming at all. She wants to throw up, to scream, to run away, to drop to the floor on her knees and cover the back of her head with her hands, and cry.

She wants him to stop looking at her, but he's never been the sharpest tool in the shed.

"C'mon babe. Let's go to the choir room," she hears Santana say gently into her ear, but it's not until the Latina pulls her past him by the arm that she can bring herself to move, and she knows Santana's seen it. Seen how he ruins her – takes her confidence and twists her into something pathetic and defenceless and miserable. But more than that, she knows Santana cares – enough to pull her away, hide her from prying eyes and put her back together again. And she's thankful for that, really, even if she can't seem to pull her eyes back up from the floor.

She doesn't really take stock of anything that's going on around her – feels like she's swimming, more rather, surrounded by water so that she can't hear anything and everything she sees is warped, and it's easier to keep her eyes on her own shoes. It eases the illness in her gut a bit. But that's probably why she doesn't see Santana shooting Brittany a pleading look when they pass her, or notice Artie at all until the blonde takes her hand and twirls her happily under her arm, directing her to take a seat in Artie's lap. And then they wheel her down the rest of the hall and into the choir room, and let her have her silence.

They talk a little once they make it there, and Artie keeps her in a friendly hug that she doesn't protest even for a second, because her mind is still caught between racing and sluggish, and there's a particular spot at the back of her head that throbs and makes the rest of her ache. It's not long before Puck whirls into the room, stopping a few steps inside the door and panting, out of breath, phone in hand, obviously having run from his last class.

"Rach..." is all he says when he sees her, sighing to himself a little and taking the last few steps across the room to kneel beside Artie's chair. He stares at her for a few moments, waiting until she glances back over to him so he can catch her gaze.

"My stitches are itching," she tells him eventually, biting on her lip thoughtfully, and he watches with a frown as her eyes wander, knowing she's not actually seeing anything. She starts humming to herself, which he guesses to be a good sign, except he knows the tune and it's really _not_. Not a good thing. Not at all.

Rachel tends to find an inherent meaning in her music, after all, so the song echoes what's going on in her head. Needless to say, it's chaotic – and she _knows_ he knows it. But she lifts herself from Artie's lap anyway, wandering around the room and mumbling the words to herself as she makes her way to the piano.

"_You hit me once, I hit you back,  
You gave a kick, I gave a slap,  
You smashed a plate over my head -  
Then I set fire to our bed."_

And Puck sighs, forcing himself properly upright and to his feet, staring after her but making no move to interrupt, because she doesn't want to listen to him at the moment, and that's okay. He can understand that. Santana come up beside him, crossing her arms as well and watching the short brunette before them as she sings the words to herself beneath her breath and runs her fingertips over the smooth black surface of the piano, apparently ignoring the majority of the world around her.

"Should we do something?" Santana asks stiffly, obviously uncomfortable with the situation – which, really, unsurprising, because who _is_? Puck just shakes his head with a shrug, watching Rachel and frowning as she slumps over the top of the piano, face pressed to the cool surface. In a rather smooth, if groggy, move, the girl practically rolls onto the top of the instrument, lies herself out spread-eagled and stares at the roof, one of her legs hanging off the side and the other bent up at the knee while her fingers twine together over her stomach.

Mike and Tina sidle into the room, Quinn right behind them and Sam talking to her over her shoulder while she smiles, and Mercedes follows both of the blondes, rolling her eyes. And everyone stops moving a little inside the room, blinking curiously while their words cut off rather abruptly, because for some reason unnameable to them, Rachel Berry is lying on top of the piano. Lauren Zizes just strolls right on past the lot of them when she walks in, and slowly, uncertainly, the rest of them move over to the risers. Puck doesn't move yet, and neither does Santana – the both of them standing with their arms crossed and frowns on their faces – and they're only slightly interested in the way Quinn hesitates a little longer than the others, eyes both curious and troubled and stuck on the diva flung out over the piano. She follows Mercedes, in a way, when the girl moves over to tap Puck on the arms and adopt the same stance.

"What's she doing?" Mercedes asks quietly, sufficiently secretive while Sam giddily tells Mike about this new sci-fi film that's coming out next week, and Mike ignores him. Santana shrugs, Puck just sighs.

"This is what I like to call Rachel's 'Brittany' mode," he explains simply. "Also, 'when hallway encounters go wrong'. And, sometimes, the 'specific after-effect of a mojito' – except she's normally more giggly in that instance than, well, morbidly introspective." He frowns again, glancing for a second at Brittany while she stares at the roof above the piano, probably wondering what Rachel's staring at. "Brittany, babe?"

"Huh? Oh. Oh, right," the girl sputters out dreamily, eyes dropping from the ceiling to blink at Puck a few times before she wanders over to the piano, taking a seat on the bench with her back to the keys.

"What's she doing?" Santana asks, and Puck just shrugs again.

"She's doing what she does," he tells her cryptically. "Let them be for a little while and Rach will be back to normal."

Rachel doesn't even look away from the roof before her hand takes the almost automatic move out to the blonde girl, pulling out her headband and twirling her fingers through blonde hair. Brittany just smiles serenely, leaning back into the touch and closing her eyes, and there's a simultaneous blink from everyone assembled, but Rachel keeps singing softly to herself and playing with Brittany's hair, and this is what Mister Schuester walks in to. He stops in the doorway, shuffling a few papers in his hands and frowning at the scene.

"Rachel, why are you on the piano?" he asks dully, blinking a few times. Rachel doesn't even turn to look at him, but Brittany opens her startlingly clear eyes to look at the teacher.

"Pending mental breakdown," the blonde says airily, and everyone blinks at her because the tone is hers but the words almost aren't. "Call back later, or leave a message after the beep. _Beep_."

Puck lets out a small chuckle, but everyone else blinks at that. Brittany just sways and smiles happily, Rachel's fingers still playing idly with her hair.

"...Uh... can you... get off the piano?" Will tries again, slightly disconcerted by the reaction.

"What? Oh. Rach. Can you get off the piano, or did you glue yourself there? Because, you know, I've been telling you since that time in third grade that you can actually eat paste even if it tastes gross, but you shouldn't put it on anything but paper," Brittany says lightly. Rachel grumbles wordlessly, and Brittany turns a little to look at her. "Really?" she asks, even though no one else in the room knows what she's asking about. Rachel gives a bare shrug of her shoulders on the piano top and Brittany turns back to their teacher with a free smile. "Yeah, that's a no."

"No, she... _can't_ get off the piano?"

"Well, no, she can."

"She can?"

"Can. She just doesn't want to."

"...Okay," he drags out, shaking his head and resigning himself to letting the girls stay by the piano. Brad isn't here yet anyway, so it doesn't really matter. Puck stride over to the piano with another sigh, taking a seat on the floor, back to Brittany's legs, and Santana follows him a moment later, squeezing onto the bench beside the blonde cheerleader. Mercedes just takes a seat in the risers, and Schuester frowns for a moment, trying to find a good spot in the room for him to see them all. "Well, guys, for the rest of this week we're basically just going to do whatever, but next week I want to see some more variety. You know – something out of your comfort zone, something you wouldn't normally sing. Any style. And while you're all thinking of that, try to brainstorm for new glee members. Once again, we find ourselves stuck beneath the twelve-member minimum."

Brittany is, possibly, the only one to notice Rachel's reaction, mostly because those fingers slow down in her hair. She frowns.

"Mister Schuester?" the blonde cheerleader questions lightly, earning the older man's easy gaze. "Does that mean Finn isn't coming anymore?"

"I could make that dirty in a second," Santana mutters to herself darkly, and Puck snorts a little on the ground, but no one else quite hears what she says. Will frowns, the equivalent expression to a kicked puppy crossing his visage.

"No, no – his mother called, and he's been pulled out of the club as a punishment," he says sadly, and Puck rolls his eyes while Santana scoffs at the teacher's show. "Now, come on guys, that's not the right attitude! Finn was a valuable part of this team and-"

"Uh, no, he was kind of whiney," Puck cuts in. "And I mean, I know he was your golden boy or whatever, but I've been taking lessons from Rach for years and I would totally _kill_ lead if you didn't keep shoving all the solos off on him because of your mentor-complex."

"I'm with that one," Santana says loudly, not at all apologetic for their teacher's prominent pout. "Serves him right, too. That's what he gets for being a cheating, lying manwhore and pushing around girls."

"Even so," the club director cuts in, tone obviously irritated but not bothering to deny any of their allegations while Mercedes and Tina hide their snickers behind their hands and Quinn doesn't even try to hide her smirk. "We do need a twelfth member, and that was Finn. At least give him _that_. Case and point, we're down a member, all due to his punishment."

There's a somewhat tense silence for a moment before Rachel sits up on the piano, blinking quickly around the room. She slides her feet steadily down to the ground and twirls to nab her bag from its place beside Puck, still humming to herself as she does, and everyone stares at her in silence, attracted by her sudden movements. She takes out her phone, flipping it open and tapping at a few buttons before pressing it up to her ear.

"Rachel, you can't just-!"

She cuts the teacher of with a wave of her hand and an irritated quirk of her lips, letting Brittany's arms wrap around her waist and pull her onto the girl's lap while the rest of the club watches in curiosity.

"Yeah, hi Kurt," she says quickly. "Are you home? Uh, no, maybe later. I'm kind of in glee – yeah, he's having an aneurysm. Would Carole, perchance, be there?"There's a fractional moment of silence. "That's actually exactly what I'm intending to do, Kurt, I'm sure you can berate me later. It's logical. Thank you." There's another small silence while her audience blinks at the clipped conversation and she starts playing with Brittany's hair again, mostly subconsciously. "Oh, hi Carole. No, no, I'm okay, it's fine, really. I was just calling about Finn – oh, no, pressing charges was never an option, believe me. His punishment is totally adequate. More than adequate, actually. Which is kind of what I'm calling about."

She pouts a little, glancing with narrowed eyes at her teacher when he goes to interrupt again and causing him to halt in his tracks with a wince.

"Mmhmm," she hums into the phone. "No, no, I understand. Glee is very important to him. So far as punishment goes it actually makes the most sense for him, yes. Unfortunately, if Finn isn't in Glee, there _is_ no Glee." She makes a face. "No, that was not my way of expressing any residual affections towards your son. It's quite literal. He's our twelfth member, and twelve is the minimum. Without him, we kind of can't compete." Everyone watches Puck sigh and put a hand to his forehead, rather obviously clued in on the nature of the conversation – he's kind of expected it ever since she started humming that Florence and the Machine song to herself, because it's kind of evident. Finn's better than nothing, right? She can suffer through Glee with him in it because it better than not having Glee at all. "Oh, I'm sure we can compromise. Reduction of certain privileges, for instance – solos, et cetera. Have a word with Mister Schuester about that. I'm sure you can organise a satisfactory arrangement. Thank you Carole. Have fun at your spin class!"

She snaps her phone shut with a flourish and a purse of her lips, quirking her brow at her astonished teammates and her club director and yawning to herself.

"Don't say I never do anything for you guys," is all she says, giving Santana a bare smile when the girl touches her shoulder. Her reaction to the teenager in the hall is still in the forefront of the Latina's mind, and she knows what this means – Finn will be back in the club, Rachel will have to look at him every day. Face him. Taste pool water and have her head ache.

That's a big damned sacrifice.

"You don't have to, Rach," Puck mutters to her after the club, when they walk out, and the brunette shrugs at him tiredly and gives him a wan smile. They both know there's not much else that can be done – they may have warned the rest of the school off of bullying her last week, but they still aren't popular. In many ways, Finn is the _only_ choice. And she knows it, and she's accepted it, and she's all for taking one for the team when she seriously shouldn't have to.

He sighs and takes her arm, leading her out of the school while she hums that song to herself that says it's the only option.

* * *

_My black eye casts no shadow  
Your red eye sees nothing  
Your slaps don't stick, your kicks don't hit  
So we remain the same  
love sticks, sweat drips  
break the lock if it don't fit_

_A kick in the teeth is good for some  
A kiss with a fist is better than none_

* * *

_You know the drill. R&R and all that._


	7. She's A Genius

_Disclaimer: I have nothing to disclaim, because I never claimed anything in the first place. Just. Saying.

* * *

_

**The first time, **_**everyone**_** feels the tension.**

Rachel hardly moves in her chair – she's not _tense_, but she's not _moving_ at all – but Puck's stiff body is kept taut for the entire afternoon, his arm around the back of her chair and his gaze unmoving from the ex-footballer across the room. His anticipation – because he _is_ anticipating the moment that someone treads too heavily around the elephant in the room and Finn says something stupid or Rachel freaks out, and everyone knows it – practically radiates from his still form. Santana, on Rachel's other side in a display of astounding loyalty, is the complete complementary opposite of the other two – visibly agitated, constantly shifting in her seat, eyes scanning the room but always returning to Finn, but she's quite obviously waiting for it too. The rest of the club is just as evidently on Team Rachel, and just as obviously waiting for the tension to break.

Mister Schue – well, he's treading on egg shells the entire time.

There's a collective sigh of relief when they reach the end of their glee time without incident, even though they all know it's only a matter of time, and everyone watches Sam and Finn walk out together (those boys are like best buds or something, but Puck doesn't really care as long as Finn Hudson is majority miserable). No one else in the room moves in any haste to leave – rather, they take their time to throw curious and concerned glances at Rachel until the girl forces herself up from her chair and yanks her bag up from the ground with a long exhale. And she doesn't look angry or miserable, or tense, or scared, or any of the other things he's expecting on this lovely Thursday evening. She kind of just looks exhausted.

She doesn't really say anything to anyone. Instead, she kind of just drifts out of the room, seemingly disconnected with the lot of them. No one knows how to react, or what it means, or what they should do about it, but glances are thrown around, and later ideas will be. In the meantime, Puck grabs his bag and rushes after her. It's rare that Rachel dwells in a weakness, but when she does he's the only one that gets to see. So he meets her at his truck, and wordlessly drives her back to his house, and then he asks his little sister to leave them alone for the evening and cracks open a bottle of beer for the both of them while she sets up the xbox.

He doesn't push her to talk, because he knows better – she won't be forced into it, and she'll only come to him when she's ready, and when she wants to. And that's okay. He doesn't mind waiting, or even never knowing, because at the end of the day she's still his best friend and she still trusts him with everything – both trivial and important. At the end of the day, she's practically his other half, and nothing will change that.

Most people, he muses while he gulps back his beer and tag-teams some dumbass noob on Halo online with Rachel, would find his choice of _bro_ disconcerting. A _girl_, they would say, _ridiculous_. And then he would punch them in the face and tell them to shut the fuck up, because his bro could probably break their nose without much incident, and she could definitely kick their asses at any xbox game presented to her. Not to mention, she was an amazing pranking partner, could knock back drinks like a champ, and was absolutely _the_ best wingman ever.

She understood him, looked out for him, and he returned the favour. She helped him do stupid badass stuff to fill their spare time, and was solidly the only person with no reservations when it came to saving him from the authorities whenever their stupid stuff led to such a conclusion – not to mention, she was the only person intelligent enough to save him from the law without getting caught, or getting second-guessed herself. No one else in the world had a bro even _half_ as cool as Rachel Berry, and Noah Puckerman was pretty fucking proud to say she was his. So seeing her this fucked up? Yeah, it doesn't sit too well with him. But all he can do is wait, because it isn't something he can just _fix_.

She lets out a victorious cheer when they win their round (king of the hill is their bitch and always has been), and he joins in the celebration, handing her another beer with a grin, because this is normal, this is therapeutic. And for now, this is all he can do.

**/-\**

He's talking quietly to Santana – explaining the previous evening to her, about how they drowned it all out with videogames and alcohol, and he wants to try a different tactic this evening, and she can come if she wants. They're both standing at the Latina's locker – because that's where he caught her, and Rachel is still well in sight, just a little down the hall and at her own. And they're both aware, and talking quietly, when Quinn turns into the hall with Sam yapping at her heels.

The blonde might be mid conversation, but her eyes totally snap right over to Puck's bro.

He's not stupid. People think he is, sometimes – think that his raging libido and his spot on the football team somehow make him dumber. But he's really not, especially when it comes to things like eye-sex and hot girls. And Quinn Fabray is both _a_ hot girl, and _eye-sexing_ a hot girl. And, yeah, Fabray totally has the hots for his girlbro. Which is cool, even if it hammers in another nail to his title of 'mistake' in her life.

And even as he watches, she turns to Sam, says something to halt the conversation, and leaves him in the middle of the hallway to walk up to Rachel. Without a second thought – what's to _think_ about, really? He kind of just wants to hear this conversation – he closes Santana's locker and pulls her down the hall to where Brittany is standing, idly staring at the roof.

Quinn, for the first time perhaps ever, doesn't slam Rachel's locker. Rather, she just waits with her folder held tightly against the front of her cheerios uniform until she gets the girl's attention. Puck tries not to be too blatant about watching – nudges Santana to do the same – and listens as the brunette slowly closes her locker and turns curious eyes to the blonde beside her.

"Rachel," is the simple greeting – Quinn's always had that gentle tone beneath the bitchiness, he knows. And it conveys a lot, really, but he can't name it. Curiosity, concern, awkwardness, interest – is it a little _sultry_ today? This is better than prime time television, and it's only one word in.

"Good morning, Quinn," Rachel replies cheerily – not so intensely or happy that she's bouncing on her feet or giving that creepy stare that everyone associates with her, and Puck's proud, because this is his Rachel. He likes his Rachel, even if she does come up with acting roles to play for four straight years that get her slushied and avoided and make no sense other than to fuck with the people around her without them ever knowing. _This_ is the Rachel that fucks with the people around her and lets them _know_ about it. He _really_ likes this Rachel. Always has. "How are you this fine morning?"

"I'm – uh – I'm good," comes the hesitant reply, and Puck chuckles inwardly, because it's just like Rachel to do this – greet her casually, like she would any other person rather than the object of her affections, and throw the girl for a loop. "And yourself?"

It's apparently all manner of awkward for the blonde, who doesn't seem to know what to say now that she hasn't gotten whatever reaction she was originally looking for. And it only gets worse when Rachel gives her off-handed reply.

"All good. Rather fulfilled, actually. I had Cheerios for breakfast." Quinn blushes enough to complement her uniform, and Rachel's gaze drifts, meeting Puck's for a fraction of a second and letting her lips quirk up the slightest amount. She squashes it before she looks back to the head cheerleader, and Puck hears Santana chuckle beside him.

"She knows what she's doing," the Latina mutters, seemingly just as awed as she is amused. "She knows _exactly_ what she's doing. That annoying little _genius_."

"And what can I help you with today, Quinn?" they hear from the pair across the hall, watching Rachel lean on her closed locker and Quinn shift anxiously on her feet before pushing ahead.

"Just wondering about your... _challenge_, for lack of a better word," the blonde says, and even though she's still a little flushed and her ears are pretty brightly coloured all the while, she looks every bit the HBIC she's supposed to be. Bold, just like the Quinn they all know and love. Rachel cocks her head to the side slightly. "You're supposed to be trying to work your way into my pants, I believe. But you haven't done anything since your, uh, proposition at the party. Should I be worried?"

"Oh, no," Rachel replies simply, shrugging a little. "I offered, you turned me down. And I mean, really, if anyone knows how annoying people who don't understand the term 'no' are, it's me. Case and point, Jacob Ben Israel. He's actually staring at us from down the hall as we speak. Also, Finn. There's a fine line between persistence and harassment, and it's not one that I'm really intending to cross in my life. _Ever_, despite previous relationship allegations. Not that you could specifically rate Finn and myself as a particularly honest relationship – nor Jesse – what with the amount of planning and acting that went into convincing the both of them I was legitimately insane just to see how long it would take them to dump me." Jaws drop all around at the idle admittance, except for Brittany, who doesn't really seem to be listening, and Puck, who already knew. Rachel's a sadistic mastermind, really – part of what he loves about her. Her love for the both of her exes was hardly as all-consuming as she made it out to be – not to say it never existed, of course. "They were both a lot more... _enduring_ than I gave them credit for, actually. But, seriously, if you're not interested I'm not going to keep trying. That would just be rude of me, really."

Quinn stares at her for a little while, silent and obviously trying to work through the girl's mentions of her past relationships and wondering what that means, exactly. In general, for Rachel, for herself. She speaks when she's collected enough, and Rachel bites her lip, glancing around the hall, waiting for some kind of reply with totally fake indifference. She wants this. Puck knows it.

"...What if it wasn't a no?"

"Oh? What – at the party?" Rachel asks, earning a nod from the blonde while the girl shifts her folder in her hands with a little bit of mostly covered-up anxiety. "No, I'm _pretty_ sure that was a no. I was there. Heard it myself."

"And if I retract that refusal?"

"That would generally imply you wanted to kiss me," the brunette says simply, shrugging a little. "_Do_ you want to kiss me, Quinn?"

She runs a fingertip along the neckline of her shirt in a seemingly thoughtless motion, but Puck knows better. His girlbro is as well-versed in the area of seduction as he is, she just tends to go about it in a different way. None of them miss the flicker of hazel eyes to follow that hand's path, the light flush on pale cheeks, the barely-even-there intake of breath. Fabray's digging her own hole here, and the only way out of it is to confess.

"...Maybe," mostly non-committed, but a hint of actual promise there if he isn't mistaken. He wonders if she realises what she's really saying here – guesses not. She might be in on this game, but she's likely still making excuses. He knows Quinn pretty damned well, too, and she thrives on denial. Tried to pretend she didn't have a baby growing in her for a while, until she couldn't make it so anymore, tried to convince everyone else, and herself, that Puck wasn't the father – and oh boy how _that_ crashed down. Now she's trying to convince herself she's not hot for Rachel, and he doesn't know how long that one's going to work for, but it's probably going to be a lot less painful to watch than her past denials.

Rachel cocks her head to the side thoughtfully, and Quinn shifts her feet a little, oddly shy again and struggling to find her backbone.

"Look – _you_ need a distraction, or a goal to keep you from going emotionally catatonic at the moment, and Santana says that your kisses are _way_ worth it, and _I _need –"

The head cheerleader glanced with a slight grimace down to an impatiently waiting Sam.

"Competition?" Rachel finished for her, a little dry and a little smug at the same time, obviously getting the idea. Puck does, too – if Rachel starts up with the real deal on the Fabray-wooing front, Sam will need to step up his own game. And Quinn wants someone who will fight for her. She's likely telling herself that having Rachel act out will work as a motivator for Sam, he guesses, but somewhere in her head it's just as likely that she's hoping for Sam to be the motivator for Rachel. Not that she'll be admitting _that_ to anyone for any reason other than the actual honest-to-god apocalypse. Not even herself. "Mmhmm. Right. You tell yourself that. Whatever excuse helps you sleep at night. But okay. Once again, I accept your challenge."

And with a small nod and a smile the girl turns to leave. A bewildered Quinn catches her hand before she gets too far, pulling her smoothly back around.

"That's it? 'Challenge accepted'? No kiss? You're not going to ask me out?"

Puck brings his hand up to his mouth and bites his fist none-too-gently to stop himself from laughing. The blonde cheerleader sounds surprised and hopeful and disappointed all at the same time, apparently mildly scandalised. Puck has to wonder exactly how Quinn thought this conversation would go. Rachel blinks once before letting a devilish, satisfied smile cross her face and leaning in close enough to whisper to the girl. Puck can't hear her – can't even see her while she speaks quietly, likely brushing lips and hot air on the taller girl's ear while a tanned hand comes up to the other side to twirl a strand of blonde hair and capture her between the two points, but he can see Quinn flushing darkly, swallow thickly and inhaling. And he _knows_ what she's saying, even if he can't hear it – simple, obvious, ever his Rachel.

"Oh, honey, _no_. You have to really _want_ me first."

And then she breaks herself away and strides down the corridor without a second thought, leaving Quinn to stand shell-shocked and hot in the middle of the hallway and Puck off to the side with his fist still shoved in his mouth and a wide-eyed Latina beside him.

"...Should I be concerned that Rachel Berry is my new personal hero?" Santana asks eventually, breaking the silence, and Puck pulls his hand out of his mouth when she locks her eyes on him, finally letting himself crack up, and shaking it out, ignoring the rather evident teeth marks on his skin. "No. Stop laughing. I'm _actually_ concerned. Girl's a freaking genius. Devious little minx of a thing. Why did I never _know_ this?"

"I thought someone would figure it out after the crack house incident," Puck tells her when he finally stops gasping from laughter. "It was – wait, genius? _Genius_. Totally gots my Glee song for this afternoon."

And then he grabs her by the hand and yanks her down the hallway, because this is going to be some super funny, badass shit. Totally a great prerequisite for the night he's got planned.

"Oh. Bye guys!" Brittany calls airily after them. He's not sure she knew how long they were there.

**/-\**

He drops the walkie talkies on the table in front of her, and smiles proudly when the brunette just stares at the device.

"C'mon, Rach," he tries to persuade, sliding into the seat opposite her at their table in the cafeteria. "Walkie talkies. We're turning this operation pro." She just blinks, eyes stuck on the small black device before she raises them to her friend, seemingly unimpressed. He knows better – somewhere beneath her stoic visage there is a part of her that _loves_ playing with toys like this. It the same part that decides to treat this thing with Quinn as a game instead of the serious venture that it probably actually is.

"…Why do I get the feeling that you're turning this into Defcon One?"

Puck shrugs, pulling an identical device from his bag when Santana appears at their table, dropping into the seat beside Rachel. He slides it to her across the table top, and the Latina picks it up and examines it with the barest approving noise in the back of her throat.

"Look, Rach," Puck starts, nabbing a chip packet from in front of Rachel and not even earning the slightest disapproval for it. "You see, babe, I'm actually quite the caring person – particularly so far as you are involved. And you're a little messed up right now, and I can see that. And, you know, my spirit-bond with Quinn lets me know that my baby mama is entirely unhappy with her life at the moment. Probably because she's lonely or whatever. And since I want the both of you happy, and it's likely that you both will be when you're together, then nothing will make _me_ happier than to help you get there." He pauses for a moment at Rachel smile, nothing the slightly sceptical look in her eyes that Santana reflects perfectly with a raised brow and a pursed lip. He sighs, letting out a slight sigh at being caught and making the correct adjustment. "And, you know, if I get to see you two making out a couple of times because of it, that's okay too."

Santana snorts before Mercedes comes up to join the table, dropping into the seat beside Puck and dumping her lunch tray onto the table beside the walkie talkie that Rachel still hasn't picked up.

"We have tots today. My life is complete." She looks at the walkie talkie when she sits down, sighs a little to herself and looks back at Rachel. "Yeah, so, I know I told you that I tried to stop the boys from buying, like, everything on that list on Sunday, right? And I wasn't lying because I totally tried, but Puck and Blaine are-"

"-sneaky freaking masterminds," Puck puts in helpfully, reaching out and pushing the small electrical device another inch towards Rachel. "C'mooon," he whines. "Take it. You know you want to. Besides, it will be entirely useful for bros night. Which is, you know, tonight."

"_Every_ night is bros night, Noah," Rachel replies dryly, but she picks it up anyway, twirling it in her fingers and examining it with an interest she doesn't bother to hide. "Because we have bros night whenever it feels like a good idea, even though it is never a good idea."

"And therein lies the beauty," Puck tells her, smiling easily at the thought. "But, just, admit it, okay? We haven't done anything extremely stupid in a really long time, and I think that it's about the perfect time to remedy that, and I have plans. So bros night. Tonight. It will happen. Santana even gets to come."

And Santana has this dark, happy smile on her face – they told her a week ago that she could be included in their badassery, and it is a promise that is already being fulfilled – while Mercedes pulls that expression that everyone understands to mean 'I don't even _want_ to know'. Rachel doesn't protest how she's been volunteered for this, and Puck's entirely cool with that, because he knows what this means to her. She might seem like the totally morally sound student, goodie two shoes with the straight laces without a single thought about revolution, but Puck knows better. Rachel likes doing stupid shit just as much as the next teenager. She's just better at it than most.

So she pockets the walkie talkie with a shrug – means agreement to him, so he grins – and then two blondes drop down at their table with hardly any warning – Brittany squishing in between Rachel and Santana, both of whom move apart without much prompting while Quinn slides into the free space beside Mercedes, directly opposite Rachel. There's the slightest question of whether it was meant to happen like that, but Puck ignores it – even if Rachel lets out a quiet but entirely bold "well hello there, beautiful," earning a blush and an averted gaze. She's probably considering the pros and cons of playing footsie with the girl right now. If she is, she decides against it.

"I'm going to sit with you guys because Artie's being mean about – well, I'm not sure what, I wasn't really listening that well because Todd, from gym, he had this new ring, with, like, a dolphin on it, and it was _really_ shiny. Oh, Rach, when I got up this morning my cat was sitting on the end of my bed, and it reminded me of-" the blonde cheerleader cuts off mid-sentence, staring at the Tupperware container half opened in front of the short diva. "...Are those cookies?"

Wordlessly, Rachel takes a cookie for herself and slides the box along to the blonde beside her, and Puck watches as Brittany squeaks and bounces in her seat. The other three assembled look slightly perturbed, but Puck understands – which is why, as soon as Brittany has a small pile of them in her hands he nabs the container from across the table, almost viciously.

"_Cookies_! " he exclaims, almost as happy as Brittany and reaching for one from the box. He shoves it into his mouth with a tiny moan. "So good. We were drinking and playing xbox _all_ night. _When_ did you have time to bake?"

The girl shrugs a little guiltily at the other end of the table, staring at the remaining half of the cookie in her hands. "Uh... at about three in the morning when I woke up and couldn't get back to sleep?" She says it quietly – more of a mumble than anything else – and Puck knows she doesn't really want to tell him about it, let alone here, in front of everyone. She's mentioned in passing that since cracking her head on the poolside, sleep isn't coming easy. Sometimes she closes her eyes and hears Finn's voice, angry and provoking, or remembers the feel of his hand on her shoulders. Sometimes she feels like she's suffocating. Either way, she's restless, stuck in a state of stasis between wanting to sleep and finding no comfort in the practice. Ever restless, needing to be worn out and broken down so she can put herself back together in a way that flows.

"Rach," he sighs out. "We talked about this."

"You were asleep already," she says with a self-deprecating shrug. "I didn't want to disturb you."

And he sighs and files it away for later, because she already knows he doesn't mind a little disturbance when it means her peace of mind. Instead, he yanks another cookie from the box and crams it into his mouth with a comical spark in his eyes, but a last glance at his girlbro that says all too plainly '_we will speak of this later, young padawan_'.

"I love it when you bake," he says between bites, and the slightly dreamy tone of his voice gets some very sceptical expressions from Santana, Quinn, and Mercedes. He adopts a properly scandalised expression when the Latina lets out a dry "they're just cookies, geez," and watches Brittany nudge the girl none-too-gently.

"Rach's cookies are better than sex," the blonde informs simply, reaching for another one for herself and earning a quiet smile from the short brunette on her other side. Mercedes quirks an eyebrow, and Santana's eyes glaze over, and Quinn blushes, and before anyone can object, Puck slaps his hand down on the table.

"Better. Than. Sex," he reiterates, shoving the box into the middle of the table as if daring the three to disagree. Mercedes frowns and takes one, and when she bites into it she gains an expression not dissimilar to being smacked over the head with a baseball bat. A scowling Santana steals one for herself, and when it crumbles in her mouth she lets out an obscene moan and immediately reaches for another.

"Everything you _do_ is a double rainbow," she hisses to Rachel – not unkindly, because she's apparently quite impressed. "I can't _wait_ for tonight. You, me, alcohol, super glue and a lock-picking kit. You better bring more cookies. It's going to be so awesome."

"I thought you said they only ever did monumentally dumb shit, S," Quinn grumbles, earning a quirked eyebrow.

"Yeah, but I don't care so much as long as I'm invited to join in on the dumb shit that they do," she says with a shrug and a glance at Puck. "And I'm invited. So I'm looking forward to doing some fucking dumb shit. Puckerman. Didn't we have some practicing to do."

"Oh. Yeah. Right." There's a loud clatter as he shoves his lunch tray away and jumps out of his seat, quickly followed by Santana, and Rachel quirks a brow at him and purses her lips, but she doesn't ask. With a bright smile, he steals another handful of cookies, leaving the box almost empty in front of Brittany, and heads out of the cafeteria, Santana at his side. Rachel just watches them go with a somewhat contemplative expression.

"Are you worried?" Mercedes asks lightly, eyeing the remaining cookies and shoving one to Quinn rather unceremoniously when she remembers that the mostly so-far silent blonde hasn't yet had one. Rachel just drums her fingers on the tabletop and bites her lip, eyes on the door, until she turns back to face Mercedes, and Brittany rests her head on the brunette's shoulder.

"Uh... no. No, actually, I'm not," she says after a moment. "Admittedly, I _am_ rather curious. But whatever they do cannot in _any_ way concern me even _half_ as much as whatever it is that he and Blaine are cooking up. The description of 'practice' leads me to believe that whatever he's got San doing is relatively tame and likely academic. Puck and Blaine's shopping list, on the other hand, sounds like a felony waiting to happen."

Mercedes thinks about it for a second before nodding her agreement, and Brittany lets out a contented sigh, snuggling into Rachel's side and reaching for another cookie. Rachel just turns her attention to the blonde head cheerleader while she eyes the cookie in her hand. Quinn looks suspicious, but takes a hesitant bite, and then snaps wide-eyes up to lock onto Rachel with a small squeak.

"That's right," is all the brunette says, smug smirk on her lips. "You _better_ enjoy it."

**/-\**

Despite the direction of 'let's jam' that Mister Schuester gives them all at the beginning of Glee – they all cringe and roll their eyes, because he just _shouldn't_ say that, _ever_ – no one really moves. In fact, even though there's a little bit of fidgeting in seats, everyone is pretty damned silent. It's kind of creepy.

But then Puck stands up and breaks the monotony of the tension-filled room – always stiff and uncomfortable because of the gargoyle in the corner with his shame-faced attitude and his mere freaking presence, and Puck can't believe they were ever friends. It's a black spot on his otherwise badass history. He gets over it.

"San and I have a _jam_," Puck says with this smirk on his face that absolutely highlights the sarcasm of the word at the same time as it projects his indifference. He is too cool to be eager. As far as he's concerned, he is _gracing_ the room with his absolutely badass presence, and hearing him sing is practically a holy experience. They should all be fucking grateful.

Rachel just smiles to herself and watches her _bro_ face the room.

Santana gets slowly up from her seat in the risers – hesitant, because she quickly realises that it leaves Rachel unguarded, with an empty seat on either side – but complies when the short brunette waves her forward. Finn _is_ all the way across the room, after all, and Mercedes and Brittany are seated right behind her. Puck finds himself an electric guitar and one of the band guys cradles his bass without even being asked.

"So, since we're just _jamming_," the Latina drawls, crossing her arms for a moment and earning a snicker from her assembled peers when she takes the same shots at Mister Schue that Puck does. "Puckerman and I decided to dedicate a song to some very fine ladies."

"Because we roll that way," Puck adds in – it's _necessary_ – before giving a nod to the guy on the bass and starting the song up. He comes in on the guitar at the right part, followed by the drums, and watches Rachel start laughing quietly in her chair, leaning back and losing all the tension from her shoulders – because the music's like a tidal wave, and for a moment it's not Rachel and Finn and The Glee Club, it's just Rachel, her friends, and the music. And it's damned good music.

"_My girl's ready to take control -  
she just blows my mind.  
She only listens to the radio  
to see who's alive."_

Puck watches her laughter fade out, and she just nods and taps her foot along while he sings it to her, smiles to herself, and she's genuinely happy right in this second, right in this fraction of time. He loves it – being able to fix her, just a little. Being successful at something _right now_. And Santana sings the second half of the first verse, and she moves to grab Rachel, even though it's Brittany that she pulls out of her seat first, dragging the both of them down to the floor to dance with her. He's hardly surprised when the two girls follow Santana's lead almost flawlessly, even though they weren't involved in the practice beforehand.

"_She wakes up scared of getting old,  
she don't feel no shame.  
She knows so many pretty boys  
and they are all the same."_

It gets the desired effect – building Rachel up and tearing Finn down, because Rachel is smiling and laughing and dancing, and Quinn is staring blatantly at the small diva, and Finn fuming, and the rest of the club bounce in their seats, and Puck exchanges a happy, smug smile with Santana when they come up on the pre-chorus and share the words.

"_They said 'oh, hey there girl, tell me what do you do?'  
She said –"_

They're both cut off with a little surprise – but not a lot, really, because it's kind of the imagined scenario – when Rachel and Brittany bump knuckles and shoot their best devilish looks – scary on both accounts but so very, very hot – at two of the boys in the audience. Finn fumes at the same time as he cringes, and Artie shrinks in his wheelchair, and Puck and Santana just grin when their girls join in.

"_Um, nothing, but I'm damn sure it's more than you."_

And Puck nearly laughs in his victory, wishing he could at least throw in a fist pump or something, but he can't when he's playing the damned guitar – Santana does it for him, a spark in her eyes while they track the tall blonde cheerleader beside her on the floor. They sing, and he plays guitar, and the three girls dance, and Rachel and Brittany add in their voices at all the right places, and he _knew_ there was a reason he played this shit on repeat in his car sometimes. He's _loving_ this performance. Especially when they get to the bridge, and the two impromptu performers flanking Santana split it flawlessly – Brittany taking Santana's hand and twirling the girl effortlessly, pulling her in close and hugging the girl so very intimately in front of everyone.

"_She said 'hey there boy, come on over and sit'."_

And he mostly ignores the two handsy cheerleaders for the moments after that, because his eyes track Rachel's progress through the room, where she dances through the seats of the risers and yanks Artie's chair back into line when he tries to roll forward, runs a hand along Mike's shoulder, down Tina's arm, flits to the back of Quinn's chair and leans down to sing into the ear of the rapidly reddening blonde.

"'_Love is when you want a kiss and you get bit.'"_

And maybe he only notices because he's watching so intently, but she _does_ nip at an earlobe, and Quinn's lips _do_ part in a silent gasp, and the cheerleader sinks in her seat when the brunette flits away for the chorus again, taking her place beside Santana and slipping right back into the rhythm with ease. And Puck smirks, because his girlbro is absolutely amazing at everything she does, and seduction's no exception. He's not just singing bullshit and lies. She _is_ a freaking genius. Quinn's bright flush and inconspicuously crossed legs can attribute to that.

Also, Finn looks super pissed off over in his seat, which is a total bonus.

And they finish their song – _**Jet**_ is fucking awesome, okay? – to thunderous applause, and laughter when he and Santana bow theatrically, and Schuester even claps and tells them how awesome it is – which must take a _lot_ of effort, because that's a lot of fake pride he has to suck up as a prerequisite. And he watches Finn sulk, and sees Sam's brow furrow like he's working through a math problem or something, glancing between a red-faced Quinn and a laughing Rachel – who jokes around with Santana and Brittany and moves purposefully in Artie's way whenever he tries to roll into the conversation. And, well, if Sam's figuring out this game they're playing, Monday morning is going to be freaking hectic. Of course, Puck ignores it and nods at Santana, because he has something else to plan for first.

**Bros night.

* * *

**

_If what you know is who you are, then she's everything  
You don't need an education to know the class that you're in  
They said "hey there girl, tell me what do you do?"  
She said "nothing, but I'm damn sure it's more than you"._

_That girl's a genius  
A who-oa-oa-oa-oa-oah  
I think she's serious  
A who-oa-oa-oa-oa-oa-oah...

* * *

_

_Reviews are boss. :)  
_


	8. The Science Of Selling Yourself Short

_Don't own, go away._

* * *

**There was a time (a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away) that bros night consisted of soda, pizza, and sci-fi movies.**

Of course, then they grew up and Puck turned into the mohawked McKinley bearer of bad news to the majority of the student body, and Rachel turned steadily more nefarious in her scheming, and suddenly they came to the conclusion that there was more fun to be had on Friday nights than simply sculling pepsi and quoting Galaxy Quest as it played on the television. '_More fun_', of course, being somewhat of a euphemism for vandalism, gatecrashing, and various other juvenile and highly enjoyable activities. Together – Puck as the muscle of the operation and Rachel, more often than not, as the brains – they broadened their horizons so far as Friday evenings were concerned, and so the night turned into less of a "what movie have we not watched yet?" thing and more of a "which Vocal Adrenaline member have we not yet thrown raw squid on?" kind of affair.

At least it wasn't eggs. They were _mature_.

Santana didn't seem to agree – sulking in the car with her arms crossed while the two Jews worked rapidly on undoing the bolts of the route marker sign. The efficiency at which they worked indicated a rather obvious familiarity with the act, even though they joked around with one another at the same time.

"I think we've disappointed Her Badassness," Puck notes with the slightest smirk, ignoring the shift in weight on his shoulders, beneath Rachel's boots. He's kneeling on the ground, lets her use him as a boost up to the sign because it's easier. She yanks at a bolt with her wrench before replying.

"Don't know what she was expecting, really. Stealing street signs _is_ badass. It's the very classification – traditionally juvenile, I rather think, particularly since it's still early for the evening and we haven't yet started drinking," the short girl rambles. She might be crudely different now to how she'd always been perceived by others, but she's always had that habit. A big vocabulary and an urge to use it. There was always enough silence for her to fill. "Hardly the main event, by the way. I think she's more irritated by the thought of having sat in the car for forty minutes just so we could drive out here for this one particular sign than disappointed by our actual itinerary. She has cookies, and we have the rest of the night. I think she'll get over it."

And even as she says it the sign comes loose into her hands and she grunts a little before jumping back off his shoulders and to the ground. He rolls his arms, loosens the tense set in his shoulders when he gets to his feet and dusts off the knees of his jeans. They move to the car, pop the boot and stuff the sign beneath a blanket in there before closing it and heading to the front of the car – Puck to drive, Rachel riding shotgun.

"What are we doing now?" Santana asks drolly from the back seat and Rachel looks over to Puck as they exchange almost identical grins.

"Going back to Casa de Berry," Puck tells her simply, holding back a chuckle when he feels her kick the back of his chair.

"More like _casa de locos_," she mutters dryly. "You're telling me we drove forty minutes out of town for a street sign, just so we could turn the car around and go back? Fuck you two!" Still, despite it, she leans forward in her seat, forgoing a seatbelt for the purpose of leaning between Puck and Rachel's chairs to semi-join them at the front. "Isn't your house empty anyway?"

"It is indeed," is the reply she gets.

"But that's kind of good, since that's where all our shit it anyway, and, like, if my mom caught me with power tools and a carton of beer she would kill me or something," Puck tells her, eyeing the empty road and flooring it. "Won't take that long to get there, anyway – it's getting late and dark out and I can speed without a problem."

"Also, while we really wanted that sign, it actually just means that all our friends saw us leave town with the intention of going to – so far as they're aware anyway – Columbus," Rachel explains lightly, hands clasped on her lap, fingers twiddling idly. "Which, really, that's rather good. Because if something goes wrong tonight we have an alibi."

"...Alibi..." Santana mutters, utterly mystified and staring at the two Jews in the front seat with wide eyes. "What is the likelihood of us needing an alibi? What exactly are we going to do that would _require_ an alibi?"

"Oh, you know..." Rachel trails off lightly.

"...the standard -"

"-breaking -"

"-and entering," Puck tells her.

"Trespassing, essentially."

"With super glue, and spray paint-"

"-possibly conducting schemes with the intention of harming others-"

"-and overall-"

"-destruction of public property."

A pause.

"...Okay, you guys need to cut out your creepy ESP twin thing where you finish each other's sentences because it's compelling me to call for an exorcist or something, get me?" Santana grumbles, shuddering a little at the twin grins and the simultaneous "Got'cha!" she earns in reply. Hisses out a quiet "creepy Jews..." as she sinks back in her seat and cracks open her box of cookies. Rachel messes around with whoever's ipod is hooked up to Noah's stereo, and then they're cruising down the highway listening to whatever punk-rock-alternate-ska-jazz shit she's lined up, singing along at the tops of their lungs and leading on into the evening.

The ride back into town doesn't seem to take too long, and Puck manages to get to Rachel's house without passing a single speed camera, and avoiding the majority of other traffic. Parks his car in an empty spot in the garage beside whatever vehicle it is shacked up in there and covered in a white sheet. They bypass it, once they're out of the car, and make their way through the connecting door to the dark house, Rachel flicking light switches as they go. Then the brunette disappears into the kitchen, while Puck leads Santana upstairs to the girl's bedroom. The Latina watches as he drags two black backpacks out from beneath the bed, apparently already packed.

"These," he explains as he drops them on the bed, "are our career kits." He grins proudly when he looks at her, and she quirks an eyebrow, not understanding. "Basically, a professional badass has, like, a particular set of tools. Career Kits. For the job and lifestyle of badassery. And if you're going to join us more than occasionally, you'll probably need to assemble your own. Everything you could ever need for basic prank-pulling, and general delinquency, is in these bags – except, like, stuff that expires or specific order materials. And big things, obviously."

She purses her lips, stares at him impassively for a moment before speaking.

"Half of me is, like, super impressed by the lengths you guys go to. Really," she tells him slowly. "The other half thinks you need lives."

He shrugs.

Puck throws her a bunch of clothes from Rachel's closet – dark jeans and a black hoodie, typical hoodlum attire. She changes in Rachel's bathroom, and when she exits he's wearing a similar getup. By the time they get downstairs there's the heady scent of pizza wafting out of the kitchen, and mouths water at the thought of food. They follow the scent to find Rachel clattering around in the kitchen – pulls three beers from the fridge and uncaps them on the counter's edge with a scrape and a quick flick of her wrist – Santana blinks, because she didn't know that was possible – and slides two of them across the breakfast counter, right into Puck's waiting hands. He passes one to her, holds his out to chink as a toast while Rachel moves to take the pizza from the oven.

"Bottoms up, and welcome to the brohood."

/-\

"I don't understand. Don't we hate school?"

"Yes," comes the simultaneous reply from either side of the Latina. Santana frowns, crosses her arms while the Wonder Twins both swing their backpacks off of their shoulders, perfectly in time. If they were even half as in sync during Glee club, they would probably beat Vocal Adrenaline down without a second-thought. She doesn't even bother to look at either of them – knows she'll see identical dark clothing on bodies of vastly different builds, black beanies on both heads. Rachel pulls out a lock-picking kit – _what the fuck?_ – and Puck pulls out a can of spray paint.

"Then why are we _at_ school?"

"Place you hate the most is the one you fuck with the most," Puck tells her, giving his can a shake and letting it rattle while Rachel moves to crouch before the door, fiddling expertly with the lock.

They'd eaten pizza in front of the television, kicking back two beers and watching trashy shows on MTV until darkness had truly fallen and Rachel had washed up before going to get changed – emerged in a matching delinquent's uniform and kicked on black trainers at the door. They'd all set their watches – 'tactical efficiency', Rachel had told her, as if they were a special ops. unit rather than a couple of bored teenagers staining the town on a Friday night. Then they'd gone into the garage and uncovered Rachel's car – didn't look too special on the outside, but the inside was comfy and the engine was pretty fucking good, they told her. Altogether, nondescript, fast, mostly unseen by their schoolmates, and just perfect for their 'let's fuck things up' outings. Puck jumped in the back seat with the 'career kits' and a cooler – full of beer, obviously – and Santana rode shotgun while Rachel drove them out into the night, taking the back roads, and winding up on the highly familiar steps of the McKinley high side-entrance – least visible of the school's doors by the public.

And that brought them to this moment – Rachel fiddling with tools until the lock gave a click and the door gave way to a dark hallway and crude linoleum floors.

"What if there's an alarm?" Santana hazards only a moment before the two Jews slide through the doors and into the darkness. "What if they catch us on tape?"

Still, she follows.

"Oh, like fuck this school will ever spend a dime on security," Puck scoffs, and Rachel flicks on a flashlight ahead of him, presumably salvaged from her bag. Handy, Santana realises. There is indeed a reason for their backpacks.

"They'll get quarantined for the atrocities that they ever so foolishly hazard to call _food_ and serve us in the cafeteria before they even so much as buy themselves a padlock for the front door," Rachel clarifies, torchlight scanning across the hallway as they moved. "Why? Do you think we'll be caught here Sanny-san-san?"

"No," Santana grumbles. "Just – cautious." Grabs the flashlight Puck offers her and flicks it on with pursed lips, wondering what, exactly, they're doing right now. "I'm badass, but Juvie's not my scene. I like me some personal space, and semi-intelligent conversation. And waffles. So, yeah – what are we doing?"

Her answer, of course, is a can of black spray paint shoved in her face. She takes it (though dubious to the intent), and tries to think of something worth spraying. Art's never really been her thing, but she watches as Rachel strides ahead of them, searching out lockers she apparently know and spraying out crude words across them in aerosol and realises something.

Arson has.

And then, even as she's forming ideas, she watches Rachel pull a stencil out of her bag (talk about _prepared_, she's like a professional illegal street artist), spraying a word on someone's locker that Santana can't quite make out in the darkness. The singer drops her bag to the floor, pulls out her lock-picking kit, and the next thing Santana knows that same locker is open for all the world to see, and the short girl has her torch between her teeth while she transfers a bunch of indiscriminate things from her bag into the shadowy locker. The Latina wants to know what's going on – like, really wants to know – but she resigns herself when Puck grabs her arm and leads her away, towards the door to the building's roof, obviously requiring assistance. Hands her his backpack – which is fucking heavy, and she realises why when she sees the actual can of paint (however many litres, what are they even doing tonight?) stuck all up in there and just waiting to stain some ground. He cracks open the door and leads her up the stair and she ignores the shuffles and clangs of metal back wherever Rachel is to move up with him, because there's a vague excitement and a slight dread for the lack of sleep she's sure to have this evening.

This is going to be a long night.

/-\

The room is darkened, but not black. Probably because it's some time after noon and even the closed blinds can't keep out the sunlight – bitching, but ain't that always the way?

Someone groans amidst the mass of tangled limbs and black clothing on the bed – an elbow jerks into someone's gut in response, though not specifically the right one, and the next thing known is a body falling from the blankets to crash on the floor, echoing loud around the room in the process.

The groan, this time, is accompanied.

"Fuck. What time is it?"

"Two in the PM, Latina girlbro."

"Raaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay-sheelll, where'd'joo go? You were my teddy!"

"Brittany?" Rachel asks, head popping up over the edge of the mattress, looking up from her newly found spot on the floor with a heavy squint, hair mussed, and tired. "Why are you in my house?"

All she gets is a vacant expression and a shrug for her trouble, and so she does the logical thing – quirks her lips and hops back into bed. She's welcomed with open arms, the tall blonde clinging to her tightly as ever, even as her two partners in crime shuffle around and hit each other on the other side of the bed.

"Fuck off, this is my bedspace!"

"I can assure you, Lopez, I was here first! Ten fucking years ago, in fact!"

"Ladies first!"

"I hope you're not talking about yourself."

A dull thump, and then a lighter one when the mattress lightens again.

"...Mother_fucker_. You almost hit me in the balls."

"Damn. Missed."

"Both of you get out of my bed before I skin you alive and go make me breakfast," Rachel grumbles, reaching over to push the temporarily smug Latina out of the bed as well – she goes with a shriek, thudding to the floor. "Or lunch. Or whatever. Doesn't even have to be good, because I can subsist on a glass of water and ibuprofen if I have to."

"I am not your slave," Santana growls back.

"Only women in the kitchen!" Puck insists – earns a snarl and an elbow to the face for his trouble.

"Wha-cheh! Wha-cheh!"

"What the fuck Britt?"

"That's my whip crackin'," Rachel replies. "Innit Britt?"

"Yup yup. Breakfast. Guys, I want scrambled eggs. And bacon."

"I'll make you breakfast, Britt!"

"Of _course_ you will Santana. How could I have never guessed."

"Pussy-whipped!"

"Food. _Food_! My stomach is making the rumblies that only eggs can satisfy."

"I'm not sure we even have eggs in the house anymore, Britt. They're kind of taboo since the lacklustre Jesse St. James era of my sad high school story. Waffles?"

"Waffles can satisfy my rumblies too."

The groan of assent leads eventually to four stiff forms making their ways downstairs to the Berry kitchen. Rachel goes immediately to one set of cupboards, dragging out a number of bowls, measuring cups – the usual things for cooking that Santana doesn't do. Puck rustles up the waffle iron with tired eyes and a pleasant smile. Brittany goes straight to the fridge, pulling out a bunch of ingredients and placing them out on the counter before searching out some OJ, a couple of glasses and a pack of aspirin from above the fridge. Sets out a glass for herself, and the accompaniment of drugs for the rest of them, and Santana takes a seat at the counter, kicks back her pills and half of her drink, and watches.

There's a practiced ease to the way they do this whole domestic friendly thing in front of her, but that doesn't surprise her. The part that does isn't even Brittany's easy comfort in the kitchen – firstly, that girl is comfortable with almost any situation, and secondly, Santana is ninety nine percent certain that Brittany's been here a huge number of times in the past. No, the surprising part is when Brittany and Rachel finish setting shit up and step out of the kitchen, leaving the actual cooking to Puck.

She quirks an eyebrow at Rachel when the girl takes up the stool beside her, and the shorter brunette shrugs.

"I make really good cookies and, like, general microwave or oven meals? Other than that, keep me away from the kitchen," is the explanation she gets in return. Brittany slides into the seat on Santana's other side and taps her shoulder.

"Puck makes good waffles because he likes good waffles," she says, and nods in conclusion like it's the answer to all of life's problems, and Santana just shrugs the doubt away and decides to go with the flow. Things tend to work out better that way.

There is a grunt of assent from the man in the kitchen as he continues to clatter around and work on their breakfast, and the three girls sip at their drinks – Rachel and Santana with the addition of hangover-combatant pills, of course.

"Fucking a', guys," Santana grumbles eventually, breaking through the silence. "How much did we drink last night? And what else did we _do_ last night? I don't really remember much beyond the school swimming pool and-"

"Hush hush," Rachel cuts in, even as Puck slides a filled plate across the breakfast counter to her. "You'll ruin the surprise for Brittany on Monday."

"I love surprises," the blonde says absently.

Santana purses her lips and stares cautiously at the small brunette to her right, trying to figure out whether or not she should push the subject. Mainly because a very large part of her evening seems to be missing from her memory, but what she has – though it was undoubtedly badass and super fun – is not at all pretty. Brittany might like the array of surprises waiting latent within the halls of McKinley High over the weekend, but if what she does remember is any indication Principal Figgins and a small minority of the student body will definitely not. And if there's anything that will lead back to her and the Jewish wonder twins, they will be absolutely and irrevocably fucked.

Then again, that's totally all the fun.

/-\

Puck sleeps almost all the way through Sunday. Truthfully, bro's night was a lot harsher on him than normal – with Santana around, he and Rachel had wanted to impress. But that meant more work than normal, in a way, and hardly getting home by daybreak, and a _super_ bad hangover that lasted for _ages_, and Puck just wanted to sleep.

Which he did, obviously.

Of course, when he decided to do that, he did so with the vague thought in his mind that Rachel would do the same. And for Saturday night and a good half of Sunday, he's pretty sure she did.

But then he wakes up on Monday morning at 2:14 with a buzzing in his ears, and he sneaks downstairs to be met with the flickering of the television – sound so low it's almost muted. Rachel's hunched on the couch, passed out, and he can make out a couple of empty bottles on the coffee table, and he sighs. Because she's not sleeping – every time she closes her eyes she suffocates – and it kills him. He traipses over to grab the empty beer bottles and shakes his head – she drinks at parties and for bros night but she's never done it to drown herself out – before grabbing the lot and hauling them off to the kitchen. Washes them out in the sink and leaves the bottles beside the garbage bin for recycling.

Then he goes back for his bro, grimaces down at her in the light from the television (switches it off via remote as an afterthought), and picks her up in his arms easily. Girl's a bit on the light side, he notes, and reminds himself to start watching her eat. She grumbles in his arms while he starts towards the staircase.

"Noah?"

"You were supposed to wake me if you couldn't sleep, Rach," he tells her gently. She just mumbles and burrows into his body. "C'mon. You can sleep with me."

"Anytime, stud." He manages a chuckle. "...Thanks."

It's quiet, and he almost doesn't hear it, even as he carries her into his room and lays her down on the bed, moving to take the spot beside her sleepily. Then he pulls her into him, holds her, and lets her meld to his side in the dark. Better beside him than the couch or the kitchen floor, like Wednesday. Which was just a shocker of an evening, really.

"No thanks necessary, babe. You know you're my girl. I'll do anything for you."

She just sniffs and nuzzles his shoulder. He makes sure she's asleep before he allows himself the luxury of even closing his eyes.

/-\

Santana traipses into school with a cardboard tray – four coffee cups, one per Puck's text request and the other three because she was already there – and a scowl on her face.

The scowl, as per usual, is because she's in school, and school just sucks in general, even if today is a day destined for shits and giggles. The coffee – well, that's for a less 'kill me now' kind of cause. And that cause, she notes as she turns into the right hall and moves her steps towards the trio by Puck's locker, is looking pretty damn _fine_ today in the shortest pair of denim short's she's ever seen gracing the halls of McKinley high school.

She traipses her way over to the short brunette by her locker, coming up at her side and gesturing forward with the coffee and a grunt. Earns wide eyes and a raised eyebrow for her trouble. Rachel looks between her face and the cup that Santana picks out of the tray and holds out for her and shifts.

"Caramel Macchiato?"

"Soy."

"Marry me."

And that's their greeting for the day before Rachel has the cup in one hand, rifles through her locker with the other. Brittany seems to just appear out of nowhere – it's a habit, Santana notes, because she's still not sure how the girl got to being at Rachel's house on Saturday afternoon when they all woke up, not that she minded.

"She can't marry you, Rach. She's going to be marrying _me_, obviously."

Santana goes bright red, and Rachel smirks. "Ah," she says. "Touche." Closes her locker and then the three of them start off down the hallway with Brittany expertly plucking a coffee from Santana's tray and the Latina staring dazedly at her blonde friend-slash-lover-slash-life partner. They wind up, eventually, at Puck's locker, in a hallway Santana vividly remembers from Saturday night – even if she didn't, the stained walls (on one side, a tall figure in a crudely drawn Sue Sylvester sporting a lightning bolt in a raised hand and garbed in some kind of toga-tracksuit hybrid, "All Hail Zeus _Sue_s", and on the wall directly opposite it a rather accurate interpretation of pedobear with a short curly mop of 'hair' sprayed on its head and a vest obviously covering it's torso; "Welcome to the halls of PedoSchue") would have definitely given it away. Puck looks up at the lot of them with a smile, takes a cup of coffee from the Latina's tray, leaving her with her own.

"Everyone's admiring the wall art," he tells them simply. "Survey say, Sues, Queen of the Gods is winning favour over PedoSchue."

"I told you people would rather the toga-wearing war weirdo god to the paedophilic vest-wearing bear," Rachel grumbles. "Just as a general point of reference, people tend to stay away from pedos anyway. But, like, props for it. Because it's funny. And oddly appropriate. And I'm kind of curious to what you actually put on the roof."

"Oh," Puck says, and Santana stares straight at him and waits for an answer, because she was up there and she helped, but she doesn't remember what they did. Only black paint. "That's a secret. You might want to keep an eye on the news over the next few days, though."

It's cryptic and concerning, but Rachel seems to let it go (despite that challenging glimmer in her eye), so Santana does too. And then Puck cracks open his locker and Santana focuses on her coffee, while Brittany stares at the roof and Rachel leans back on the wall beside Puck's locker, gaze focussed down the hallway. And Santana wonders first what she's looking at, but secondly – and more importantly – why Puck takes a camcorder from his locker and hands it to the short girl to power on and focus right there in the hallway.

Puck closes his locker and clears his throat, and Rachel levels the camera at him. He grins a little ruefully and Santana frowns.

"What are you doing?"

"You're rather photogenic, Noah," Rachel tells him simply. "How did you describe it when we were ten? 'Making women swoon since I was a bump in my mommy's tummy'?"

"Never doubt the power of an unborn child," he scolds with a playful smirk, lifting a hand to block himself from the camera. "Didn't we have a point to this?"

"Yes." Rachel turns the camera to Santana instead, and the girl only moves to give her a one-finger salute – not even a change in facial expression. "Grouchy, babe. Better drink up your coffee. Get some caffeine in those veins and so-so if you want to live through English Lit. And we still have an ETA of, like, one minute or so before _Subject K_ actually moves to open his locker, Noah, forgive me for having some innocent, friendly fun with our shiny camera. Britt, look down from the roof and give Santana a pretty smile before she growls and tries to claw my face off."

Santana, to her credit, only grumbles a little beneath her breath, letting the blonde wrap warm arms around her tense shoulders and pull her in close – _god_, she missed this. But...

"Who's 'Subject K'?"

"Patience, my young padawan," Rachel replies. "Due time, you will see in. Understand, you will."

"You guys used to watch Star Wars on your bro's nights, didn't you."

"There's no 'used to' about it."

And if the Wonder Twins sound unnaturally proud of themselves when they say it, Santana pretends not to notice, focusing instead on the warm arms of her blonde not-yet-girlfriend as they move down to circle her waist. Brittany nuzzles into her shoulders, and for a moment Santana tenses right up, because they're in public and people will see her and judge her and _know_.

But then she makes herself relax, because she's fucked this up before, and she's not going to again. Britt's more important than the rest of them anyway. Just something she's learnt.

"Incoming!" Puck announces – crosses his arms back on the locker and watches down the hallway as Karofsky strolls down towards his own locker. "Is it just me, or does he look constipated?"

"I think it's supposed to be his _swag_ face," Rachel tells him vacantly, focussing her camera on the large jock as he comes to a stop less than five metres away, facing his locker on the opposite wall. He goes stock still and when he spins around, he's furious, glaring suspiciously down the hallway at all the assembled loiterers, but not really seeing anyone.

"What the fuck is this shit!" they hear him yell. "Think it's a fucking joke! Writing 'homo' on my locker! Whichever one of you piece of shit losers put this on here, I'll find you, I'll fucking _kill_ you, I'm not a fucking _fag!_"

Puck and Rachel just glance at each other and scoff, and Santana finally notices the four letters stencilled ever so simply on Dave Karofsky's locker for all the world to see. When no one says anything to him – instead, the crowd mumbles behind hands and whispers to one another 'is it true?', 'is it a joke?', 'what bloody legend broke in on the weekend?' – he turns with a snarl back to his locker and twists jerkily at the dial on the lock. Puck covers his mouth with his hand, and Rachel smirks dangerously, camera still levelled across the hall, and then – _**bam!**_ –

"WHAT THE FUCK!"

**/-\**

"Did you see it?"

"_See_ it? Jacob had it on his blog! I watched it on repeat all through my free period."

"Send the link to Kurt! He'll totally want to see it. Comic retribution. _Brilliant_."

Mercedes and Rachel watch Mike and Tina as they rave on up the front of the risers, waiting for Mister Schue to get his super slow feet into the choir room (there's another five minutes on the timer before they would even hint at worrying). Rachel links her fingers, stretching out her arms and cracking her knuckles with a yawn, receding it into a satisfied smile, and her friend turns her head to stare (_evaluate_).

"Say, Rach, you wouldn't happen to have any idea how anything today happened, would you?" she asks, but she's not really asking and her tone is pretty flat. In hindsight, it's not much of a question at all.

_She knows._

"Now, Mercedes, what would ever give you _that_ impression?" Rachel questions back lazily, lightly, leaning back in her chair. "Breaking and entering? Graffiti, arson? Juvenile delinquency? Not me, not I."

"If you say so," Mercedes deadpans. "But you know, I'm fairly certain that when we went shopping the other week, I saw a few choice items on that list. You know – plastic sheeting, super glue, _glitter_..."

"I can assure you, I had better things to do with my weekend than stick every piece of loose furniture in the teacher's lounge upside-down on the roof," is the idle reply. "It would have taken far too much time, and I'm just not that dedicated."

"Yeah, you are."

"Well, yeah, I am," she admits. "That's true. That was a lie. I totally could be that dedicated, under the right circumstances. Besides, hypothetically, if, perchance, I actually did have anything to do with the rearrangement of the teacher's lounge, I would have had accomplices under my employ."

"Definitely."

"But I didn't do it."

"I'm pretty sure you did."

"You have no proof!"

"Rachel, I'm pretty sure you are the _only_ person I know in this school with the ability and drive to build a glitter canon," Mercedes says dryly, but amused, earning narrowed eyes in her direction for her trouble. "Let alone the presence of mind to put it in the locker of resident homophobe Dave Karofsky, all the while proclaiming him gay. Poetic justice or somesuch."

"I plead the fifth!"

Mercedes just grins and shakes her head until someone taps her on the shoulder. She turns in her seat and blinks at a moody Sam Evans.

"Couldn't help but overhear-" he starts simply, but Rachel huffs and cuts him off.

"Of, foo, you were _listening_."

"You're responsible for Karofsky getting covered in that blow-up of glitter?"

"What part of 'I plead the fifth' escapes you, young Samuel?" Rachel replies with a frown. "Besides, David is the one who opened his locker, so by technicality, having set off the cannon, he kind of claims responsibility. It's not my fault at all. And really, if he doesn't want to be a part of a 'homo-explosion' then he shouldn't be providing the provocation by declaring others to be a part of one anyway. Dumb shit."

"Homo Explosion?"

"It said '_homo'_ on his locker," Rachel explains slowly, accentuating every other word, "and then it _exploded_."

"And you think that's funny?"

"Absolutely. Like Mercedes said, poetic justice."

"I can't believe you would _do_ that to someone."

"I think you're missing the part where 'Rachel did it' was classified as hypothetical," the diva says drolly, exchanging a glance with Mercedes. "I feel that you're underrating the determination and intelligence of the rest of the school body, as well as my strict moral stature. That's rather insensitive on your behalf."

"Seriously? Gonna defend your morality? I'm allergic to bullshit. One word – _Sunshine_."

"You send a foreign exchange student to a perfectly safe, long-inactive crack house _one time_..." she sighs out, exasperated, earning a laugh from Mercedes. Most of the rest of the club has gone silent now – Quinn sitting stiffly beside Sam and watching the going-ons with a frown, Finn on the other side, seemingly unable to pick an emotion. Tina and Mike have turned in their chairs and Lauren frowns from her place by the door while Santana and Puck turn to watch warily from the piano. Mister Schue finally strolls on into the room, mouth opening to (probably) apologise for being late, but the words don't make it past his lips before Sam continues on.

"Don't be sarcastic about it! You're a reckless, selfish bitch, with no regard for anyone but yourself!"

"Fanciful. That's _almost_ true. Needs a bit of editing – like, you know, every English essay you've ever written."

"Dyslexia is a serious issue! Don't joke about it!"

"You're the one who called me a bitch, I was just living up to my title."

"Go fuck yourself."

"Go fuck your ex-quarterback boyfriend!"

He lunges out of his seat, crashes into it and listens as the plastic snaps, but she's halfway across the room before he even makes contact, body tensed up and eyes flashing in his direction to provoke even as she withdraws in on herself in fear. Silence.

Then, uproar.

"_Tell_ me you did not just-"

"I will fucking _kill_ you!"

"Did you honestly just try and fucking tackle my girl?"

"Boy did _not_-"

"Oh, fuck."

And Santana and Puck start forward with intent to harm, but it's Mercedes who whacks the grounded blonde in the back of the head while Finn looks torn between helping her and stopping her and doesn't move from his seat. Mister Schuester is trying to yell over the top of the lot of them, but it's not going too well, and all they can hear is threats and yells and disbelief all directed at the boy on the ground. Everyone, it seems, is too preoccupied to notice Rachel slipping quickly from the room, too preoccupied with the downed football player and skinning him alive.

Everyone, that is, except Quinn.

**/-\**

She watches from the wings of the stage as the brunette tips her head back and closes her eyes, stretches her arms out from her sides and spins herself in circles beneath the stage lights. And then the girl starts to hum to herself, but it reaches out in the emptiness and wraps around Quinn and drags her another step forward. Can't move her gaze from the diva as she stops spinning and starts swaying on the spot instead – slow and fluid, side to side, rolling through her body.

Enchanting.

Hazel eyes drift shut in the lull – hopes, for a moment, that if she can't see the other girl then she can't feel anything about her, can't feel these things that she's not meant to – but that light hum dropping from behind those closed, elegant lips still reaches out, brushes against her skin, shudders down her spine. Thrills her, and her heart beats harder, but steadily, so in sync, and she wants to sway too. Feels it from her head to her toes in a shiver and a thrum and a quake, and her lips part with the faintest gasp, drawing breath into shaky lungs while her eyelids slide back open.

The image she finds is no less gorgeous than before – lights casting shine in brown locks, shadow on the smooth contours of her face and the slight darkness around her eyes. Rachel hasn't been sleeping she realises, but the concern takes a backseat to the wonder. And then that elegant creature swaying slowly before her opens its eyes but never stops moving, and she meets never-ending brown with hazel and feels like she's drowning. Stumbles forward, but doesn't remember telling her feet to move.

There is a brush of bare skin against her own – hands meeting in a ghost of a touch, barely tangible at all – and it sends another shudder through her. Her breath catches, her feet move, a rhythm stretching from the feather light touch on her palm to the depths of her soul, and then she sways too.

A gentle brush around her waist, pulling her closer, but not too close, and those are soft, lithe hands holding her in. And her own arms wind up resting over the other girl's shoulders, wrapped loosely around her neck. She breathes in deeply and her eyes slide shut. Rachel hums softer, light and teasing at the ears until it is only the two of them and nothing else.

They sway together. They do not speak.

**/-\**

She doesn't know how long they dance together on the stage – her head tucked down on Rachel's shoulder, the soft, warm hum in her ear. She doesn't know when they stop, or how they come to be sitting on the edge of the stage, sides brushing and staring out into the vastness of the auditorium. Under the stage lights, everything blurs at the seams, fades together into a haze, dreamlike, ethereal. And they sit there for a while in silence, broken only by the faint sounds of heartbeats and soft breaths. Until she speaks, but it almost doesn't break the silence at all – gentle, legible, but barely a sound at all.

"Did he scare you?"

She doesn't need to clarify, and knows it because the brunette before her tips her head to the side ever so slightly before turning to fix her with those beautiful brown eyes.

"No. Not him," and it's just as gentle, just as light on her ears in the silence, shielded away from outside eyes and ears, like nothing and no one can touch them here.

Their own little sanctuary from the world, and maybe she realises now why Rachel spends so much time on the stage. She's not herself there – or maybe she _is_ herself there, but nowhere else – and she doesn't worry about morality, or religion, or other people. Because it's just _her_. Right now, it's just _them_.

"The... _movement_, maybe. The memory..." And her eyes close and her face looks pained. "Sudden, and a crack, stinging at the back, and weight, heavy, around me, and pushing down, pressure on my lungs. Darkness. And..." Quinn sucks in a breath, feels her body tingle in all the same places as described. Hates it. "...you. I remember you. Your voice, your face. Comes back when I'm sleeping – _when_ I sleep, _if_ I do." She opens her eyes, traces paths with them on Quinn's skin, and the blonde has to catch her gasp in her throat. "_Beautiful_."

And then she's leaning in, and Quinn is fighting back the shudder as it traverses her spine, eyes sliding shut, because this gorgeous brunette woman is right there, right in front of her, and their noses brush, feather light, the only point of contact, warm breath ghosting across her lips and – _oh god oh god oh god_, this is _it_, _this_ is where she's going to get that forbidden, delicious kiss. Her breath catches, heart races, fingers curling, nails digging into the wood of the stage, and –

Lips, light on her cheek.

She's disappointed – _cheated_ – but she thinks that maybe she should be relieved, because she can't be in this – she _can't_, there are _so_ many reasons. Growls somewhere in the back of her throat without realising it, lets out a sighing breath afterwards, and _god_ it's confusing. She wants that kiss so badly, but she doesn't want it at all, and Rachel isn't moving away – ghosts her lips over Quinn's cheek once more, then to her jaw – pinpricks of warmth on porcelain skin, fingers tensing, digging back into the stage, eyelids barely fluttering open at the feeling – and another barely-there press beneath her ear, hot air rushing over flushed skin – eyes roll back under fluttering eyelids, lips parting in a gasp that doesn't come – how can this be _wrong_ when she _wants. so. __**much**_?

_Temptress, sinner, be my sin_.

"A proper thank you," is whispered barely, hotly in her ear, and _god_, she almost moans. "Saving me with stitches. Warding away the demons in my dreams."

_She dreams of me?_

"So," punctuated with a hand lifted, fingertips dancing across smooth skin, brushing blonde hair back out of the way, "_very_," and she swallows thickly, because the proximity is getting to her, the light scent of vanilla curling into her lungs, "_beautiful_." And then hot lips nip a little more firmly at her ear, still gentle but finally proper contact, and she can't hold back the gasp, the pitiful whimper, can't stop herself from squirming, and she'll be surprised if she hasn't gouged marks into the stage beneath her.

And then Rachel's gone, leaving her with a flush on her cheeks and a pant to her breath, legs pressed tightly together for reasons she'd rather not address even as the brunette strides away on the stage, revealing a moody looking Sam stumbling in from the wings.

"What are _you_ doing in here?" he snaps, and he's snide and angry, and Quinn guesses he's had quite the verbal beat down from the others. Doesn't learn from his mistakes, though, if he's snapping at Rachel still. _She_ kind of wants to punch him, now – if she could get up, she probably would, but her legs are pretty shaky so she doesn't try. He has pretty much _the_ worst timing she's ever seen.

"Better watch your tone, boy," is Rachel's reply, but she sounds more amused than anything, pulling possibly the worst (or the best, depending on how you interpret it) hick accent Quinn's ever heard. But then she clears up to a more normal, slightly pre-pool accident dialect, and Quinn blinks from her still-seated spot on the stage. "Frankly, I'm surprised you got away without any bruises, jumping at me like that. What, do you think it makes you more of a man to defend yourself with physical violence? Simply barbaric, and not at all conclusive to a successful future in, well, anything short of professional wrestling, or boxing – those kinds of things? But you'd definitely never qualify for them. Also, beating up girls? Fucking stupid move. I'd think you would learn from Finn's mistakes, but, huh, guess not. There's not a lot of intellect beneath you're lemon-juiced mop of hair there – did you bleach it out? While on the topic? Consider a haircut. You're turning into a bit of a yeti, and I can't have you ruining the aesthetic image of our glee club as a whole, thus tainting our performances and having us lose our season again."

She turns back to Quinn with a wicked grin (the blonde crosses her legs entirely, presses them together tightly at the devilish gleam to the other girl's eyes and continues to pretend she doesn't know why she does it) and waggles her fingers in a lithe wave.

"I'll see you _later_, lovely," is her farewell, and then she turns, shoves past a fuming Sam who has yet to respond. It's only a moment before she disappears entirely that she thinks to call out a final, "Oh, and Sam? Get that haircut. If you impede on my dreams for Broadway, I will not hesitate to plan your demise via crocodile in Cairns, Australia. And don't doubt it. I have _connections_."

And then there is the sound of the stage doors closing, and Quinn is left alone with a flush stuck on her cheeks and a thousand thoughts running rampant in her head, and a blonde boy standing before her, stuck between angry and fearful, and she doesn't know what to do about it. And then, well, shit, there's only one thing she can really think about with the memory of hot breath rushing past her ear, and whispers, and lips on her jaw. She's getting in this way too far and she can't stop herself. And, god, she wants that kiss.

_Well, fuck._

**/-\**

She enters back into the choir room pretty silently, all things considered, but they're still all on her like a pack of wolves. Santana and Puck both accost her barely three steps in the door, and she quirks her head to the side as they babble.

"-and we were gonna hit him-"

"-boy whinges like a six year old on sugar-high-"

"-and then I said "Schuester, what kind of a dumb fuck are you?" and he got all cut up about it like I'd killed his pony-"

"-and Kurt was on the phone screaming his ear off about respect and shit-"

"-but Brittany was crouching beneath the piano looking for mice-"

"-am I the only football player that doesn't get pissed about being called gay?"

Rachel just rolls her head on her shoulders until they're done, and they exchange a glance quickly thereafter before firing off a simultaneous "Are you okay?" Rachel just blinks.

"Oh, I'm fine. Probably should have had my hat on me when I left, though. My whole 'wear while wooing' philosophy seems to be going to the dogs, one might say..." she tells them, and Santana narrows her eyes.

"Operation Fabgay?"

"..._Yeah_, I think I skipped a few steps..."

And then Santana prances off in a fit of hysterical laughter, finding herself wrapped up rather quickly in Brittany's arms as the blonde giggles and coos about Quinn – who mysteriously skulks back into the room with Sam at her heels like a lost puppy. Puck, however, isn't so quick to celebrate, as he takes Rachel by the arm and leads her across the room, mostly out of the hearing range of the others. Looks deep into her eyes as if searching before he asks again.

"Sure you're okay? It's okay not to be," he tells her quietly, earning a waning smile in return.

"You know... I think I'm getting there," she tells him, and he stares, as if to figure out if she actually means it. Seems to deem her honest as he lifts a hand to ruffle her hair before pulling her into a heavy hug.

"If you ever want to talk or anything?" he puts forward simply. "But, just, don't shut me out about this, right? Because you're still scared. That's why you're not sleeping, and I know that. But don't push me away to feel stronger, right?"

"I know."

And he hugs her, sways her slightly side to side on the spot until Mister Schue drags himself back into the room, having left earlier, with suspiciously red-ringed eyes. Puck just snorts.

"I think Satan made him cry."

And Rachel laughs, stepping out of his arms and taking his hand to lead him to the front of the room, where she whispers a song title in his ear and earns a small smirk. Because this week's assignment was to pick a genre neither of them have traditionally performed, and, well, ska is certainly one of those. And maybe they've played this song before, and maybe they've sung along to it in his truck on bro's nights when they were planning on crashing a party and making a scene and wasting an evening in booze. And maybe it's just kind of appropriate right now. But he picks up a guitar, and stares menacingly at their teacher until the man submits to take a seat in the risers and step aside.

And then he plays. And Rachel sings.

"_I've come to my senses that I've become senseless.  
And I could give you lessons on how to ruin your friendships.  
Every last conviction – I smoked them all away,  
and I drank my frustrations down the drain, out of the way."_

And Puck joins in on all the right parts, singing in harmonies in the practiced places, call and response in others, while the band joins in and the rest of the Glee club sways in their seats.

"_I'll sing along, yeah with every emergency  
Just sing along – I'm the king of catastrophe  
And I'm so far gone, that deep down inside  
I think it's fine by me, I'm my own worst enemy."_

And then he looks at Rachel as she sings, and she looks at him with open eyes and a lingering sadness in her soul, and he believes her. It'll be a long road, and he knows it. She's not there yet, but she's getting better.

* * *

_I could be an expert on co-dependency,  
__I could write the best book on under age tragedy,  
__I've been spending my time at the local liquor store,  
__I've been sleeping nightly on my best friends kitchen floor,  
__So I sit and wait and wonder,  
__"Does anyone else feel like me?"  
__I'm so over dosed on apathy and burnt out on sympathy_


End file.
